IC-NRLF 


SB 


DEB 


LIBRAE  V 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE  POETS 

AND 

POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

EDITED   BY 
JAMES    N.    JOHNSTON 


BUFFALO,   NEW  YORK 
MCMIV 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY 
JAMES    N.    JOHNSTON 


THIS  BOOK 

IS  DEDICATED  TO  THE 
BUFFALO  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY, 

AS  A 
SLIGHT  CONTRIBUTION  TO  ONE  IMPORTANT  PART 

OF   THE   LOCAL   HISTORY 
WHICH   IT   LABORS   TO  PRESERVE. 


PREFACE 

An  anthology  of  Buffalo  verse  has  long  been 
talked  of  and  much  of  the  plentiful  material  for 
such  a  collection  has  been  hitherto  pointed  out. 
The  late  David  Gray,  in  articles  written  for  his 
journal,  The  Buffalo  Courier,  referred  to  some  of 
the  poets  of  his  time.  Mr.  Frank  H.  Severance, 
while  editor  of  The  Buffalo  Sunday  Express,  gave 
considerable  attention  to  our  local  poets,  and  in 
a  paper  on  "The  Authors  of  Buffalo,"  contributed 
by  him  to  the  publications  of  The  Buffalo  Histori 
cal  Society,  named  a  number  of  our  writers  of 
verse.  Papers  at  different  times  have  been  read 
before  our  local  literary  societies  on  the  poets  of 
Buffalo.  Mr.  Charles  Wells  Moulton,  in  his  Maga 
zine  of  Poetry,  especially  in  what  he  named  The 
Buffalo  Number,  gave  a  selection  of  poems  from 
Buffalo  authors.  All  these  helped  to  stimulate  in 
many  minds  a  desire  to  see  more  from  the  writings 
of  our  local  poets  brought  together  in  one  repre 
sentative  book. 

It  has  not  been  difficult  for  my  friends  to  per 
suade  me  to  undertake  the  gratifying  of  that 
desire;  for  I  have  watched  the  flowering  of  this 
native  verse  wTith  a  very  warm  interest  from  the 
early  years  of  my  life  in  Buffalo,  when  I  began 
acquaintance  with  men  and  women  in  the  older 
circles  of  those  to  whom  poetry  is  a  delight. 

About  half  a  century  ago  my  mother,  the  late 
ix 


Jane  Nichol  Johnston,  began  a  scrap-book  hoard 
ing  of  poems  which  pleased  her,  including  such 
local  verse,  from  newspaper  print,  as  she  and  I 
thought  worthy  of  preservation.  These  scrap 
books,  some  of  them  now  falling  in  pieces,  have 
made  the  nucleus  and  the  principal  source  of  the 
present  collection .  Other  sources  have  been  opened 
to  me  by  Mr.  Henry  R.  Howland,  Miss  Phoebe 
Vail  Salisbury  and  Miss  Marietta  Salisbury,  Mr. 
Charles  D.  Marshall,  Mr.  John  McManus,  Mr. 
George  Alfred  Stringer,  and  others.  I  have  been 
diligent,  too,  in  gleaning  from  the  files  of  the  city 
press,  especially  from  such  literary  periodicals  as, 
now  and  then,  have  had  a  brief  existence  here. 
Authors,  or  their  living  representatives,  have  given 
cordial  assistance  to  my  work,  and  publishers 
who  own  copyright  in  many  of  the  poems  chosen 
have  been  generous  in  permitting  them  to  be  used. 
Due  acknowledgment  of  the  latter  courtesy  is 
made  in  another  place. 

In  forming  the  collection  my  greatest  difficul 
ties  have  arisen  from  the  abundance  of  the  mate 
rial  at  command.  I  have  found  it  far  beyond  my 
expectation.  It  surprises  one  to  find  how  many 
volumes  of  verse,  public  and  private,  by  poets  con 
nected  in  some  way  with  Buffalo,  have  been  put 
into  print.  Certainly  the  number  exceeds  two 
score.  As  David  Gray  once  remarked,  our  poets 
begin  in  the  newspapers,  then  appear  in  the  maga 
zines,  and  end  often  by  publishing  a  book.  Con 
sidering  that,  three  or  four  generations  ago,  the 
ancestors  of  two-thirds  of  our  present  population 


did  not  speak  our  English  tongue,  and  that  we  are 
a  commercial  and  manufacturing  community,  en 
gaged  strenuously  in  material  enterprises,  we  may 
feel  some  reasonable  pride  in  the  field  of  poetry 
from  which  these  gleanings  are  made. 

I  have  aimed  to  make  my  selection  representa 
tive  in  a  comprehensive  way ;  not  limited  to  a  few 
of  our  foremost  poets,  but  extended  to  less  ambi 
tious  verse,  where  it  has  a  merit  of  its  own,  or 
where  it  is  significant  of  the  taste  and  culture  of 
former  times.  The  poems  of  the  Honorable  Jesse 
Walker,  going  back  into  the  thirties,  have  a  pecu 
liar  value  aside  from  being  the  first  book  of  printed 
Buffalo  poetry  coming  under  my  notice.  I  have 
taken  some  poems  because  of  their  historical  or 
personal  associations,  and  a  few  —  which  include  a 
small  number  of  my  own  pieces  — at  the  request  of 
friends.  This  may  be  deemed  excusable  in  a  book 
not  prepared  for  general  public  sale,  nor  for  any 
pecuniary  profit  to  the  editor.  Many  of  the 
writers  represented  in  the  book  were  or  are  my 
personal  friends,  and  it  has  been  a  labor  of  love  to 
bring  their  work  together  in  a  single  volume. 

The  proportion  of  space  allotted  to  the  writers 
severally  is  not  to  be  taken  always  as  the  measure, 
in  my  judgment,  of  the  value  of  their  verse.  His 
torical  and  other  considerations  have  entered  into 
the  apportionment  of  space.  Nor  must  it  be  sup 
posed  that  writers  omitted  are  thought  to  be 
unworthy  of  a  place  in  the  book.  A  few  whom  I 
intended  to  reach,  but  did  not,  have  written  poems 
that  are  superior  to  some  that  are  here. 

xi 


My  thanks  are  due  to  the  many  who  have 
assisted  me  in  this  work ;  primarily  to  those  who 
encouraged  and  aided  its  publication, — to  Mrs. 
John  C.  Glenny,  whose  fine  taste  has  added  beauty 
to  the  book,  and  above  all  to  my  mother,  Jane 
Nichol  Johnston,  whose  aid  in  the  selection  and 
preservation  of  our  local  poetry  made  it  possible 
for  me  to  undertake  the  present  collection. 

J.  N.  J. 


xii 


All  rights  in  poems  in  this  collection  are  reserved  by  the  holders  of  the 
copyright.  The  publishers,  authors,  and  others  in  the  following  list  have 
given  permission  to  use  the  poems  named  therein,  for  which  the  editor 
would  make  courteous  acknowledgment : 

To  ADVANCE  PUBLISHING  CO.,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 
For  "Her  Face,"  by  Bessie  Chandler. 

To  AINSLEE'S  MAGAZINE,  NEW  YORK. 
For  "A  Garden  in  Greece,'1  "  Cameraderie,"  by  Charlotte  Becker. 

To  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.,  BOSTON,  MASS. 

For  "Recompense,11  "An  After  Thought,'1  "Dandelion,11  "Love  in  May,11 
"  At  Sunset,11  by  Annie  R.  Annan  ;  "Murillo's  Immaculate  Conception," 
by  David  Gray;  "The  Marguerite,11  "A  Last  Word,11  by  Augustus  R. 
Grote. 

To  R.  G.  BADGER  &  CO.,  BOSTON,  MASS. 
For  "Obscurities,11  "Keats,"  by  Philip  Becker Goetz. 

To  CATHOLIC  WORLD  MAGAZINE  CO. 
For  "  Night  and  Peace,"  by  Blanche  B.  Wade. 

To  THE  CENTURY  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 

For  "  Terra  Incognita,"  by  George  Hibbard  ;  "Snow  Born,"  by  Henry  R. 
Howland  ;  "Rydal  Water,"  "Maidenhood,"  by  Annie  R.  Annan  ;  "At 
First,11  by  Amanda  T.  Jones;  "The  Tapestry  Weaver,"  by  Anson  G. 
Chester;  "The  Last  Council,"  by  David  Gray;  "Dora's  Eyes,"  by  Irv 
ing  S.  Underbill;  "The  Highwayman,"  by  Allen  Gilman  Bigelow  ; 
"The  Wood  Nymph,"  by  Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson  ;  "The  City  of 
Light,"  "  The  Comfort  of  the  Trees,"  by  Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

To  WILLIAM  C.  CORNWELL,  BUFFALO,  N.  Y. 
For  "A  Night  of  Winds,  A  Night  of  Clouds,"  by  Annie  R.  Annan. 

To  THE  CRITIC  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 

For  "A  Poet's  Apotheosis,"  "Crossing  the  Meadow,"  "A  Song  Sparrow," 
by  Walter  Storrs  Bigelow  ;  "  Alfonso,"  by  Effle  Dunreith  Gluck. 

To  FIELD  AND  STREAM. 
For  "  A  Child  of  the  Woods,"  by  Charlotte  Becker. 

To  HARPER'S  BAZAR. 
For  "  The  Awakening,"  by  Emily  Howland  Leeming. 

To  HARPER'S  MAGAZINE. 
For  "  The  Cost,"  by  Charlotte  Becker. 

To  GOOD  HOUSEKEEPING. 

For  "Love  Stands  and  Waits,"  by  Emily  Howland  Leeming;  "Song," 
"  Prescience,"  by  Rose  Mills  Powers. 

To  THE  INDEPENDENT,  NEW  YORK. 
For  "  Gethsemane,"  by  Minnie  Ferris  Hauenstein. 

To  AMANDA  T.  JONES. 
For  "Shipwrecked,"  by  Amanda  T.  Jones. 

To  P.  J.  KENEDY. 

For  "The  Launch  of  the  Griffin,"  "My  Irish  Wife,"  by  Thomas  D'Arcy 
McGee. 


To  LESLIE'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 

For  "  The  Soldier's  Mother,"  by  Amanda  T.  Jones ;  "  What  do  Shepherds 
Think?"  by  Blanche  E.  Wade. 

To  LIFE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

For  "A  Long  Drawn  Sigh,"  "To  Him,  to  Her,"  by  Irving  S.  Underbill  ; 
"The  Last  Lover,"  by  James  S.  Metcalfe. 

To  THE  LITERARY  WORLD. 
For  "  The  Life  Natural,"  by  Jessie  Storrs  Ferris. 

To  A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 
For  "  Father,"  from  "  A  Prairie  Idyl,"  by  Amanda  T.  Jones. 

To  CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTON,  BUFFALO,  N.  Y. 
For  poems  from  "Magazine  of  Poetry." 

To  FRANK  A.  MUNSEY  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 

For  "  A  Street  Song,"  by  Charlotte  Becker ;  "  The  Summer  Noon,"  by 
Blanche  B.  Wade. 

To  NEW  ENGLAND  MAGAZINE. 
For  "  Delight  Rose,"  by  Henry  R.  Rowland. 

To  FREDERICK  PETERSON. 
For  poems  from  "  In  the  Shade  of  Ygdrasil." 

To  PUCK. 
For  "The  Beautiful  Trio,"  by  Irving  S.  Underbill. 

To  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS. 

For  extracts  from  "RisuTs  Daughter,"  "Sunrise  from  the  Mountains," 
"Through  the  Trees,"  "The  Nightingale,"  "Premonitions,"  by  Anna 
Katharine  Green. 

To  ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS. 
For  selections  from  "The  Wind  in  the  Clearing  "  and  from  "  For  the  King." 

To  SATURDAY  EVENING  POST,  PHILADELPHIA. 
For  "Envoy,"  "Sympathy,"  by  Charlotte  Becker. 

To  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK. 

For  "On  A  Head  of  Christ,"  by  Bessie  Chandler  Parker;  "Good  Night," 
by  Marrion  Wilcox. 

To  THE  SMA.RT  SET. 
For  "The  Reckoning,"  "Arden,"  by  Charlotte  Becker. 

To  MRS.  JULIA  M.  THAYER. 
For  "The  Recluse,"  "The  Unwelcome  Guest,"  by  Helen  Thayer  Hutcheson. 

To  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY,  NEW  YORK. 
For  "Pierrot,"  by  Charlotte  Becker. 

To  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  &  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 
For  "A  Picture  of  Millais,"  Published  hi  Vol.  II.  of  "The  Life  and  Letters 
of  Millais,"  by  Edith  Eaton  Cutter. 

To  THE  YOUNG  CHURCHMAN  COMPANY,  MILWAUKEE,  WIS. 
Selections  from  the  works  of  the  Rt.  Rev.  Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe. 
Also  the  editor  would  express  his  obligations  to  all  authors  included  in 
this  collection,  or  their  legal  representatives,  for  copyright  poems,  or 
those  not  copyrighted,  whether  published  in  books,  otherwise  printed, 
or  hitherto  unpublished. 

xiv 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS 


Adam,  Thekla,  ....... 

Albertson,  Rev.  Charles  Carroll,        .... 

Almy,  Frederic,          ....... 

Annan,  Annie  R  (Mrs.  William  H.  Glenny),    . 

Annan,  J.  V.  W., 

Arey,  Mrs.  H.  E.  G., 

Austin,  Arthur  W. , 

Austin,  Mary  Evelyn,        ...... 

Balfour,  Grace,  ....... 

Barker,  James  W., 

Becker,  Charlotte, 

Bigelow,  Allen  Gilman, 

Bigelow,  Walter  Storrs, 

Browne,  Irving,          ....... 

Burroughs,  Ellen.     (See  Jewett,  Sophie.) 

Burtis,  Mary  E., 

Burwell,  Dr.  Bryant,          ...... 

Chandler,  Bessie  (Mrs.  LeRoy  Parker),     . 

Chester,  An  son  G 

Christy,  Edward, 

Conway,  Katherine  E. , 

Coxe,  Rt.  Rev.  A.  Cleveland, 

Cronin,  Rev.  Patrick, 

Cutter,  Edith  Eaton,          ....         • 

Davenport,  Esther  C., 

Ditto,  Mrs.  John  A.     (See  McKenna,  Margaret.)     . 

Dixon,  Master,  *    . 

Dowling,  Jane  F.  ( Mrs.  Robert  B.  Foote ), 

Emerson,  Agnes  D. , 

Fernald,  Hannah  G., 

Ferris,  Ellen  M., 

Ferris,  Jessie  Storrs, 

Foote,  Mrs.  Robert  B.     (See  Dowling,  Jane  F.) 
Fulton,  Linda  de  K.,          ..... 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson, 

Gildersleeve,  Rachel  Buchanan,  (Mrs.  Gildersleeve 
street),         ........ 


.   434 
375 

270-273 

166-180 

112 

.  34-42 
212-217 
267-269 
.  241 
226-228 
422-428 
256-260 
360,  361 
246-255 

218,  219 
13 

341-344 
.  66-77 
.  15,16 
280-285 
203-211 
293-299 
406-408 
236-238 

.   1,  2 

435 

.  43,  44 

.  402 
242-245 
403-405 


220,  221 
429,  430 
Long- 

.   45-48 


INDEX     OF     AUTHORS 


Glenny,  Aline, 431 

Glenny,  Mrs.  William  H.     (See  Annan,  Annie  R.)  . 

Gluck,  Effie  Dunreith  ( Mrs.  James  Fraser  Gluck ),  .       235 

Goetz,  Philip  Becker, 438-440 

Gray,  David 152-165 

Gray,  David,  Jr 395-398 

Green,  Anna  Katharine  (Mrs.  Charles  Rohlfs),         .          196-202 

Grote,  Augustus  Radcliffe, 130 

Hadley,  Clara  A 127-129 

Hartzell,  Rev.  J.  Hazard, 115-119 

Hauenstein,  Minnie  Ferris, 277-279 

Hibbard,  George, 318 

Hosmer,  James  Kendall, 109-111 

Hosmer,  W.  H.  C., 239,  240 

Howard,  Emily  M., 393,394 

Howland,  Henry  R., 337-340 

Hubbell,  Mark  S., 355-359 

Hutcheson,  Helen  Thayer, 380-384 

Jewett,  Sophie  (Ellen  Burroughs),  ....          366-369 
Johnston,  James  N. ,  .        .         .        .        .         .          144-151 

Jones.  Amanda  T., 93-106 

Kellar,  Elizabeth, 107-108 

Kendall,  Ada  Davenport, 326-328 

Keyes,  WillardE., 377 

King,  S.  Cecilia  Cotter  (Mrs.  Wm.  A.  King),    .         .         436,  437 

Kittinger,  M.  J., 224, 225 

Larkin,  Frances  Hubbard, 391,  392 

Larned,  Anne  Murray, 410, 411 

Leeming,  Emily  Howland,        .         .        ..        .         .          415-417 

Letchworth,  Josiah,  .        .         .         .        .        .        .         222, 223 

Letchworth,  Sarah  Evans, 414 

Longstreet,  Mrs.  Gildersleeve.     ( See  Gildersleeve,  Rachel 
Buchanan.)       ........ 

Lord,  Emily  Bryant, 55 

Lord,  Rev.  John  C.,  D.  D., 49-54 

Loton,  Jabez, 120-124 

MacColl,  Mary  J., 274-276 

MacManus,  Theodore  Francis, 370-374 

McGee,  Thomas  D'Arcy, 20-25 

xvi 


INDEX     OF     AUTHORS 


Mclntosh,  William, 286-292 

McKenna,  Margaret  (Mrs.  John  A.  Ditto),         .        .        .          14 

Mahany,  Rowland  B. , 345-348 

Marshall,  Charles  D.,          .  86-92 

Martin,  Charlotte  Rosalys, 376 

Metcalf e,  James  S 441 

Mills,  J.  Harrison,      ........     78-83 

Mixer,  Mary  E., 125-126 

Montgomery,  Carrie  Judd, 319-325 

Nichols,  Walter  Clark, 378-379 

O'Connor,  Joseph, 229-234 

Olmsted,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  M., 132-135 

Parke,  Charles  S., 307,308 

Parker,  Mrs.  LeRoy.     (See  Chandler,  Bessie.) 

Peterson,  Dr.  Frederick,    .         .        ...        .          309-317 

Powers,  Rose  Mills,   .        .        ...        .        .         412, 413 

Ripley,  Mary  A.,        .         .        ...        .        .          136-143 

Roberts,  Caroline  Mischka,        ...        .        .         432,433 

Robinson,  Grant  P., 113,114 

Rogers,  Robert  Cameron,  .        .        .        .        .         445-462 

Rohlfs,  Mrs.  Charles.     (See  Green,  Anna  Katharine.)     . 

Salisbury,  Guy  H.,  26-33 

Severance,  Frank  H., 300-306 

Shalloe,  Agnes, 362-365 

Shea,  John  Charles, 261-266 

Sprague,  Carleton, 442, 443 

Stillson,  Jerome  B., 84,85 

Stuart,  Matilda  H 58-65 

Thompson,  Mary  Norton, 131 

Tracy,  A 17-19 

Underbill,  Irving  S., 399-401 

Van  Fredenberg,  Henry  A., 329-336 

Wade,  Blanche  Elizabeth, 388-390 

Wade,  Elizabeth  Flint, 385-387 

Walker,  Honorable  Jesse, 3-12 

Wentworth,  David, 56,  57 

Wilcox,  Marrion, 418-421 

Wright,  William  B., 181-195 

Young,  Julia  Ditto, 349-354 

xvii 


MASTER   DIXON 


MASTER   DIXON* 

A    NEW    SONG 

Composed  in  Commemoration  of  the  Completion  of  the  Grand  Erie  Canal. 

YE  brethren  dear,  who  now  unite 
In  this  grand  scene  of  pure  delight, 
We  now  have  reached  the  glorious  height, 
The  level  of  Lake  Erie. 

The  waters  of  the  east  and  west, 
The  Hudson,  Mohawk,  and  the  rest, 
In  sweet  communion  now  are  blest ; 
They  mingle  with  Lake  Erie. 

This  day  we  all  rejoice  to  meet; 
The  glorious  work  is  now  complete, 
The  mountain's  levelled  at  our  feet,— 
Is  levelled  with  Lake  Erie. 

Accomplished  is  the  grand  design, 
The  work  of  Level,  Square  and  Line ; 
0 !  Masonry,  the  art  was  thine, 
To  triumph  o'er  Lake  Erie. 

Where  is  the  nation  that  can  show 
Such  streams  as  through  our  mountains  flow 
To  the  Atlantic,  far  below 
The  level  of  Lake  Erie? 

*  This  song  was  printed  in  the  form  given  here,  on  a  broad  sheet  of  silk,  at 
the  time  of  the  celebration  of  the  opening  of  the  Erie  Canal,  1825.  Nothing  is 
known  of  the  writer.  x 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  work  of  many  a  freeman's  hand, 
A  brave,  a  bold,  a  noble  band — 
The  guardians  of  this  happy  land, 
The  conquerers  of  Lake  Erie. 

Buffalo, — 0 !  who  can  ever  view 
These  works  so  grand,  these  scenes  so  new, 
And  not  admire,  and  love  thee,  too, 
Thou  child  of  ancient  Erie  ? 

Around  thy  paths  I  love  to  roam, 
For  every  house  is  here  a  home ; 
I  bless  the  hour  when  first  I  come 
To  meet  with  thee  and  Erie. 

0 !  who  will  not  this  day  rejoice, 
And  lift  on  high  his  grateful  voice  ? 
Come— men  and  women,  girls  and  boys, 
Shout  for  Buffalo  and  Lake  Erie ! 

This  happy  day  shall  ever  be 
Remembered  as  a  jubilee ; 
The  Lakes,  the  Rivers,  join  the  Sea, 
The  Ocean  weds  Lake  Erie. 


HONORABLE   JESSE   WALKER 


HONORABLE   JESSE   WALKER 

INVOCATION  TO   GENIUS 

Extract. 

CHILD  of  the  skies !  spark  of  celestial  fire ! 

Yet  doomed  on  earth  awhile  in  man  to  burn 
With  bright  and  transient  gleams  and  then  expire, 

Thy  reign  no  bounds— thy  flight  has  no  return. 

Thy  course,  forever  onward,  cannot  learn 
The  mystery  of  thy  being ;  nor  thought  define, 

Nor  yet  the  workings  of  thyself  discern. 
Must  Reason  then  o'er  thee  her  power  resign, 
Nor  hope  to  know  thy  destiny— thy  source  divine? 

Waked  into  birth  by  Nature's  kindly  care, 
And  from  his  silent  slumbers  roused  to  fill 

The  measure  of  the  soul,  who  shall  declare 
The  limits  of  that  high,  mysterious  skill 
That  taught  the  noblest  powers  of  mind  distill 

From  Nature's  works  their  sweets,  nor  yet  to  find 
Throughout  the  valley,  verdant  plain,  or  hill, 

A  spot  whereon  to  rest  in  peace  resigned, 

But  yet  must  rove  through  all  creation  unconfined. 

Such  is  the  flight  that  Genius  takes  around 
The  viewless  regions  of  the  boundless  skies, 

That  naught  of  sight  remains  unseen,  or  sound 
Unheard  in  all  the  lovely  tones  that  rise 
In  song,  or  scenes  designed  for  mortal  eyes ; 

3 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

But  various  views  and  harmonie's  combined 

By  Nature's  plastic  hand,  with  glad  surprise 
Do  charm  the  finer  feelings  of  the  mind, 
And  blend  in   that  consistent  piece,  by  Heaven 
designed. 

Borne  on  the  ceaseless  wing  of  Time  along, 
Like  burning  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  sky, 

Now  seen  to  fall,  and  now  his  course  prolong — 
Now  to  depart,  yet  ever  linger  nigh — 
Immortal  Genius  wings  his  way  on  high, 

While  Reason's  powers  her  brightest  gems  display, 
At  first  to  shine,  and  then  in  darkness  die ; 

The  vast  extent  of  earth  and  air  survey, 

Nor  yet  the  laws  of  matter  or  of  mind  obey. 

His  ever  kind  regard  no  favorite  knows ; 

The  friend  of  all— of  every  art  the  pride— 
Alike  on  rich  and  poor  his  smile  bestows, 

And  gives  to  them  the  boon  by  wealth  denied. 

To  him  imagination  opens  wide 
Her  shining  gates,  and  quick  appears  a  scene 

With  every  sight,  and  sound,  and  sense  supplied, 
Where  gentle  rivers  roll  the  hills  between, 
And  shades  and  fragrant  flowers  adorn  the  vales 
of  green. 

Let  Genius  here  his  nobler  powers  display — 
With  living  laurels  crown  the  Statesman's  fame ; 

Let  Liberty  here  shine  with  purest  ray, 
And  youthful  Patriots  guard  the  sacred  flame ! 


HONORABLE   JESSE   WALKER 

Here  let  the  Muse's  deathless  notes  proclaim 
The  beauty  of  the  bright  and  glittering  gerns 

That  shine  around  immortal  Franklin's  name, 
Till  every  tongue  the  ruthless  hand  contemns 
That  tears   one   wreath   from   off  our  nation's 
diadems. 

Let  Virtue's  consecrated  temple  rise 

From  its  broad  basis  to  the  lofty  spire ; 
Of  genius  claim  the  holy  sacrifice 

That  Love,  and  Hope,  and  Truth  divine  inspire. 

Let  Folly,  Sin,  and  Crime  in  shame  retire; 
Let  proud  Oppression  meet  his  fearful  doom, 

And  hated  Vice  with  mournful  sighs  expire ; 
Let  Freedom  live  the  while  in  vernal  bloom, 
And  sing  her  solemn  dirge  around  the  Patriot's 
tomb! 


LET    LOVE    ABIDE    FOREVER 

LET  Love  abide  forever ! 

Thus  did  Affection  sing— 
Thus  wrote  the  faithful  lover 

Upon  a  golden  ring ; 
He  gave  it  to  his  love— 

She  vowed  to  keep  it  ever ; 
Witnessed  the  stars  above— 

"  Let  Love  abide  forever ! " 

Let  Love  abide  forever, 

Nor  think  the  date  too  long; 
5 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

In  vain  might  Time  endeavor 

To  swell  its  sweetest  song. 
I'm  bound  to  thee  with  bonds 

Which  earth  may  not  dissever; 
Thy  look  of  love  responds 

"  Let  Love  abide  forever ! " 

Let  Love  abide  forever ! 

Though  mourning  on  us  come 
And  sorrows  round  us  hover, 

Love  rest  upon  our  home. 
When  in  affliction's  hour 

May  holy  friendship  ever 
Exclaim  with  softening  power, 

"Let  Love  abide  forever!" 

Let  Love  abide  forever ; 

It  was  not  born  to  die ! 
Who  shall  its  life  recover, 

When  falls  its  dying  sigh? 
Yes— Love  shall  live,  though  death 

Our  earthly  ties  should  sever, 
And  sigh  our  dying  breath, 

"Let  Love  abide  forever!" 


SATURDAY    EVENING 

THE  work  of  labor  now  is  done,  and  rest 
Awaits  the  happy  millions  that  repose 
Upon  the  lap  of  ease.    Content  is  there, 
To  whisper  of  the  promises  of  Hope— 


HONORABLE   JESSE   WALKEE 

Of  Hope,  the  bright-winged  messenger  of  peace. 

For  who,  that  meets  this  hour  aright,  but  feels 

An  inward  flow  of  joy  which  lifts  the  soul 

To  elevated  themes  and  holy  thoughts, 

Meant  for  the  morrow  ?    Him  I  envy  not 

Who  would  not  claim  these  feelings  as  his  own. 

Not  all  unpleasing  is  the  evening  walk, 

The  gaze  upon  the  stars,  whose  steady  eyes 

Have  never  failed  of  lustre  since  the  day 

The  Great  Eternal  bathed  the  world  in  light. 

The  moon,  more  proud,  but  less  sublime,  walks  up 

The  sky  and  boasts  her  brighter  than  the  clouds, 

Whose  shade  but  helps  to  give  her  glory.    These, 

The  balmy  air,  the  crickets'  song,  and  all 

The  soft  accordances  of  evening,  mould 

The  thoughts  in  harmony ;  but  he  who  views 

This  scene  alone,  can  see  and  feel  but  half 

The  beauty.    Happy  he  that  knows  there's  one 

Who  would  be  with  him  in  this  quiet  hour. 

THE    HEARTHSTONE 

Pro  Aris  et  Focis.— Cicero. 

DEEP  in  the  solitude 
Of  the  darkened  wood, 
Where  never  hut  had  stood, 

With  hammer  alone, 
Fast  by  a  ledge  of  rocks, 
A  man  of  youthful  locks, 
With  oft  repeated  knocks 

Had  shaped  a  hearthstone. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

With  trunks  of  trees,  he  there, 
In  rudely  measured  square, 
Built  up  a  cottage  where 

She  he  loved  would  come ; 
With  lusty  arm  and  lone, 
He  raised  and  bore  the  stone, 
While  Hope  alone  looked  on, 

To  his  rustic  home. 

Years  have  passed  away ; 
'Tis  a  bright  morn  in  May ; 
Children  are  at  play — 

A  daughter  and  son. 
A  happy  home  is  there, 
And  the  bright  altar,  where 
Uprise  both  praise  and  prayer, 

Is  the  old  hearthstone. 

Day  swiftly  follows  day ; 
The  world  calls  them  away — 
Those  children  at  their  play- 
Sister  and  brother. 
Far,  far  away  they  roam, 
But  back  to  blessings  come, 
To  happy  hearth  and  home, 
For  father,  mother. 

Another  year  has  fled, 
And  one  of  these  is  dead ; 
For  him  a  prayer  is  said, 
Each  day  returning ; 
The  other,  aged  grown, 
8 


HONORABLE   JESSE  WALKER 

With  widowed  heart,  alone, 
Upon  the  old  hearthstone 

Keeps  love's  light  burning. 

And  there,  by  day  and  night, 
That  flame  of  holiest  light 
She  watcheth  sweetly  bright, 

And  will  not  falter. 
0  God !  such  love  that  gave, 
When  she  is  in  the  grave ! 
That  ancient  hearthstone  save! 

It  is  thine  Altar. 


ADDRESS  SPOKEN  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  BUFFALO 
THEATER,  JUNE  22,  1835 

Extract. 

HAIL  to  thee,  City !— the  home  of  the  free ! 

Come  thou,  the  child  of  the  Drama  to  greet. 
Hail  to  thy  children  as  well  as  to  thee  !— 

The  child  of  the  Drama,  they  joyous  shall  meet. 
Ye,  who  have  listened  to  the  son  of  song, 

While  oft  with  angel-touch  he  swept  the  lyre ; 
Ye,  who  of  music  would  the  notes  prolong, 

Or  feel  the  flame  that  Genius  may  inspire ; 
Ye,  who  would  praise  the  arts  divine,  that  make 
The  lifeless  marble  into  being  wake, 
And  to  the  canvas  rude,  the  hues  impart 
That  bid  to  life  the  form  of  beauty  start- 
Let  noble  sentiments  your  mind  engage — 
Salute  ye  now  the  Genius  of  the  Stage ! 

9 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  Drama  comes,  we  trust,  a  welcome  guest, 
And  owns  your  home  the  Mistress  of  the  West. 
Alive  to  finer  feelings  of  the  soul, 
Let  Genius  now  your  willing  hearts  control. 
And  here  may  Virtue's  purest  spirit  breathe 
On  him  whose  brow  the  laurels  love  to  wreathe. 
Let  sympathy  with  sweet  amusement  flow, 
To  cheer,  with  blissful  hopes,  the  heirs  of  woe. 
Let  Charity,  the  child  of  Heaven,  descend — 
In  him  she'll  find  a  brother  and  a  friend. 
The  orphan's  grief  he  soothes  with  accents  mild, 
While  yet  he  owns  himself  a  joyless  child. 
O'er  all  the  world  is  Genius  doomed  to  roam— 
With  thee,  fair  City,  may  he  find  a  home. 
He  chose  thee  from  the  little  and  the  great, 
The  fairest  daughter  of  the  "  Empire  State." 


0  BEAUTIFUL  and  softly-flowing  river, 
The  gentlest  of  the  torrent's  daughters, 

Departed  hath  the  forest-child  forever 
From  the  green  margin  of  thy  waters. 

Thy  banks  of  beauty  once  were  clothed  with  wild- 
ness; 

Of  feeling,  then,  there  was  no  coldness ; 
The  bravest  heart  was  tempered  well  with  mild 
ness,— 
The  weakest  one  full  high  with  boldness. 

*The  Indian  name  of  Buffalo  River. 

10 


HONORABLE   JESSE   WALKER 

No  barge,  with  whitened  sail,  the  lake  was  sweep 
ing; 

All  round  the  shore  the  shades  were  waving ; 
The  waters,  now,  within  were  sweetly  sleeping, 

And  now  the  banks  were  softly  laving. 

The  red  man  there  his  bark  canoe  was  rowing, 

And  woman  little  ones  caressing ; 
The  beauteous  flowers  in  wild  luxuriance  growing; 

Great  Spirit !  thou  didst  give  the  blessing. 

And  when  the  warrior,  from  the  chase  returning, 
Beheld  his  children's  smiling  brightness, 

And  holy  love  on  fireside  altars  burning, 
His  bosom  swelled  with  buoyant  lightness. 

Here  breathed  the  poetry  of  love's  devotion, 
And  burst  the  laugh  of  bounding  gladness ; 

The  spirit  struggled  here  with  deep  emotion, 
When  dimmed  its  light  a  shade  of  sadness. 

And  when  he  felt  the  frost  of  age  advancing, 
The  chieftain  told  his  thrilling  story 

To  fearless  children  round  the  war-fire  dancing, 
Of  deeds  that  built  the  hero's  glory. 

When  bound  him  Death,  within  his  soothing  slum 
bers, 

His  tomb  unmarked  by  stone  or  willow, 
Sung  then  his  funeral  dirge  the  wind's  wild  num 
bers, 

The  moss-grown  rock  his  dying  pillow. 
11 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Now  perished  hath  his  bright,  ethereal  vision ; 

The  red  man's  glory  hath  departed ; 
Great  Spirit !  grant  a  sweet  Elysium 

To  beings  here  but  broken-hearted. 

Mid  blooming  vales  and  gently  rising  mountains, 
With  ivory  bow  and  golden  quiver, 

Give  them,  0  Heaven,  to  drink  at  crystal  fountains, 
And  hunt  along  the  rolling  river. 

The  arrow's  point  with  string  elastic  throwing, 
Give  the'm  to  guide  with  aim  unbending ; 

0  happiness,  in  peaceful  streamlets  flowing, 
Grant  them  the  bliss  of  life  unending. 


12 


BRYANT   BURWELL 
BRYANT   BURWELL 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MARY  BURWELL 

FAREWELL,  dear  child— we  humbly  bow 
To  Heaven's   decree,  and  yield  thee  now;- 
But  oh !  what  keen  emotions  rise, 
While  thus  we  make  the  sacrifice. 

Forgive,  sweet  child,  the  falling  tear ; 
Though  brief  has  been  thy  life's  career— 
Yet  in  our  hearts  shall  ever  dwell 
The  thoughts  of  her  we've  loved  so  well. 

We've  seen  thy  infant  dawn  disclose, 
Fair,  as  in  June  the  opening  rose ;  — 
But  sickness  came,  with  withering  blight, 
And  thou  art  gone  to  realms  of  light. 

Parental  love  delights  to  trace 
Thy  mental  beauty's  nameless  grace,— 
With  all  th'  affections  deep  and  strong 
That  e'er  to  childhood  could  belong. 

Farewell,  dear  Mary !  — rest  in  peace ;  — 
Thy  parents'  sorrow  soon  will  cease ; 
To  us,  with  thee,  will  then  be  given 
The  richest  joys  of  pitying  Heaven. 

October  18,  1836. 


13 


POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


MARGARET   McKENNA 

(MRS.  JOHN  A.  DITTO) 
LINES  ON    THE  REMOVAL  OF  A    FAVORITE   TREE 

FAREWELL,  old  Tree !  mine  eyes  have  seen 

Their  last  of  all  thy  strength  and  pride; 
Gone  are  thy  leaves  and  foliage  green, 

And  all  thy  branches  scattered  wide ; 
Yet  ere  the  spoiler's  ruthless  hand 

Had  dared  thy  beauty  to  efface 
Thou  wert  the  noblest  of  the  land, 

The  loveliest,  dearest  of  thy  race. 

How  oft  beneath  thy  spreading  shade, 

In  childhood's  merry,  thoughtless  hours, 
With  gentle  spirits  here  I  played, 

And  deemed  thee  coolest,  best  of  bowers ; 
Within  thy  sheltering  boughs  the  bird 

Was  wont  to  build  her  tiny  nest, 
The  soft  south  breezes,  too,  have  stirred 

Thy  leaves,  and  lulled  my  heart  to  rest. 

Long  years  may  pass,  and  still  thy  fate 

Forever  shall  remembered  be, 
For  linked  with  thee  in  social  state 

Are  recollections  dear  to  me. 
May  I,  old  Tree,  when  life  has  fled, 

And  earth  receives  its  kindred  clay, 
Have  one  to  drop  upon  my  bed 

The  tears  that  memory  loves  to  pay. 

February  24,  1848. 

14 


EDWARD   CHRISTY 


EDWARD   CHRISTY 

BUFFALO   GALS 

As  Published  with  the  Music  and  Copyrighted  by  William  Hall  &  Son, 
New  York,  in  1848. 

As  I  was  lurab'ring  down  de  street, 

Down  de  street, 

Down  de  street, 
A  handsome  gal  I  chanc'd  to  meet ; 

Oh !  she  was  fair  to  view. 
Buffalo  gals,  can't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Can't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Can't  you  come  out  to-night? 
Buffalo  gals,  can't  you  come  out  to-night 
And  dance  by  de  light  ob  de  moon  ? 

I  ax'd  her  would  she  hab  some  talk, 

Hab  some  talk, 

Hab  some  talk, 
Her  feet  covered  up  de  whole  sidewalk 

As  she  stood  close  by  me. 
Buffalo  gals,  can't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Can't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Can't  you  come  out  to-night  ? 
Buffalo  gals,  can't  you  come  out  to-night 
And  dance  by  de  light  ob  de  moon? 

I  ax'd  her  would  she  hab  a  dance, 
Hab  a  dance, 
Hab  a  dance, 

15 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

I  taught  dat  I  might  get  a  chance 

To  shake  a  foot  wid  her. 
Buffalo  gals,  can't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Can't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Can't  you  come  out  to-night? 
Buffalo  gals,  can't  you  come  out  to-night 
And  dance  by  de  light  ob  de  moon  ? 

I'd  like  to  make  dat  gal  my  wife, 

Gal  my  wife, 

Gal  my  wife, 
I'd  be  happy  all  my  life, 

If  I  had  her  by  me. 
Buffalo  gals,  can't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Can't  you  come  out  to-night? 

Can't  you  come  out  to-night? 
Buffalo  gals,  can't  you  come  out  to-night 
And  dance  by  de  light  ob  de  moon  ? 


18 


A.  TRACY 
A.  TRACY 

THE    WOODSAWYER 

BY  the  crowded  thoroughfare  all  day  long 

The  Sawyer  plies  his  trade ; 
Ever  and  aye  to  the  passing  throng 
Sounding  a  solo,  deep  and  strong, 

From  the  cord-wood  round  him  laid. 

And  a  very  notable  wight  he  is, 

That  none  may  overslaugh; 

We  might  forty  times  freeze,  in  a  land  like  this, 
And  many  things  find  to  go  all  amiss, 

But  for  him  of  the  buck  and  saw. 

Maple  and  birch,  and  the  green  beech  wood, 

He  taketh  them — straight  or  askew  — 
Each  one  at  its  worth,  like  his  evil  and  good, 
Nor  worketh  as  one  in  a  dainty  mood 
With  the  task  he  is  set  to  do. 

For  an  iron  grip  has  the  hand,  I  wot, 

That  driveth  his  keen-set  blade ; 
And  his  mailed  knee  huggeth  the  log's  rough  butt 
As  if  it  w^ere  Poverty's  self  he'd  got, 

Like  a  victim  fairly  laid. 

The  splinter  shrieks,  and  the  knot  provokes 

His  steel  in  its  path,  mayhap, 
But  deeper  it  sinks  with  his  sturdy  strokes 

17 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  the  dusts  pulse  out,  amid  groans  and  chokes, 
Till  the  last  tough  fibres  snap. 

You  might  deem  in  the  crowds  that  come  and  go, 

In  an  ever-shifting  scene, 

There  were  few  on  him  a  thought  to  bestow  — 
The  old  Woodsawyer,  poor  and  low, 

Plying  a  task  so  mean. 

But  in  many  a  glance  that  him  espied, 

How  did  the  envy  lurk ! 
Oh,  he  had  no  heart  from  men  to  hide — 
No  honor  lost— no  thorning  pride— 

Nor  was  he  ashamed  to  work ! 

Stick  after  stick,  with  a  patient  toil, 

That  heeds  no  passing  thing, 
Till  his  dusts  spread  ankle  deep  the  soil, 
And  the  lopt  logs  lay,  like  a  noble  spoil, 

Heaped  round  in  half  a  ring, 

Ready  to  split  and  pile  for  a  host 

Of  worthy  uses  free,  — 

For  the  week-day  bake,  and  the  Sunday  roast, 
And  to  boil  the  kettle  and  brown  the  toast, 

When  the  ladies  come  for  tea. 

It  may  be,  too,  when  the  snows  come  on, 
And  the  panes  are  feathered  with  cold, 

To  crackle  and  glow  on  the  gray  hearthstone, 

Cheering  the  heart  of  the  orphan  one, 
Or  the  beggar,  poor  and  old. 

18 


A.  TRACY 

Little  the  Sawyer  gets  for  his  job, 

But  he  hath  a  conscience  true ; 
And  the  shilling  he  puts  in  his  olden  fob, 
He  knoweth  he  did  not  filch  nor  rob, 

But  earned  as  a  Man  may  do. 

That  little,  too,  it  serveth  his  ends, 

And  keepeth  his  state,  and  all ; 
For  the  Sawyer's  worth  among  his  friends 
Is  based  no  whit  on  the  money  he  spends, 

Or  the  lackeys  at  his  call. 

And  who  so  lordly  at  eventide, 

When  he  doth  his  good  buck  sling ! 
The  crowd,  I  wot,  before  his  stride, 
Though  they  may  not  bow,  will  their  ranks  divide, 

As  soon  as  for  a  king ! 

His  wife  is  glad  when  at  last  he  comes, 

And  the  wee  ones  at  his  knees ; 
They're  not  so  stuffed  with  cakes  and  plums 
As  to  sicken  and  fret— so  he  picks  his  crumbs, 

And  smokes  his  pipe  in  peace. 

The  Sawyer's  saw !    There  be  others  instead, 

From  learned  lips  that  fall ; 
But  the  plain  old  saw  to  earn  his  bread, 
And  a  roof  provide  to  shelter  his  head, 

Is  the  noblest  saw  of  all ! 

BUFFALO,  March,  1849. 


19 


POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE 

THE    LAUNCH    OF    THE    GRIFFIN 

Within  Cayuga's  forest  shade 

The  stocks  were  set— the  keel  was  laid — 

Wet  with  the  nightly  forest  dew, 

The  frame  of  that  first  vessel  grew. 

Strange  was  the  sight  upon  the  brim 

Of  the  swift  river,  even  to  him, 

The  builder  of  the  bark, — 
To  see  its  artifical  lines 
Festooned  with  summer's  sudden  vines, 

Another  New  World's  ark. 

As  rounds  to  ripeness  manhood's  schemes 
Out  of  youth's  fond,  disjointed  dreams, 
So  ripened  in  her  kindred  wood 
That  traveller  of  the  untried  flood 
And  often  as  the  evening  sun 
Gleamed  on  the  group,  their  labor  done — 
The  Indian  prowling  out  of  sight 
Of  corded  friar  and  belted  knight- 
He  smiled  upon  them  as  they  smiled, 
The  builders  on  the  bark— their  child ! 

The  hour  has  come ;  upon  the  stocks 
The  masted  hull  already  rocks— 
20 


THOMAS  D'AECY  McGEE 

The  mallet  in  the  master's  hand 
Is  poised  to  launch  her  from  the  land. 
Beside  him,  partner  of  his  quest 
For  the  great  river  of  the  West, 
Stands  the  adventurous  Eecollet, 
Whose  page  records  that  anxious  day. 
To  him  the  master  would  defer 
The  final  act— he  will  not  bear 
That  any  else  than  him  who  planned 
Should  launch  the  Griffin  from  the  land. 
In  courteous  conflict  they  contend, 
The  knight  and  priest,  as  friend  with  friend- 
In  that  strange,  savage  scene ; 
The  swift  blue  river  glides  before, 
And  still  Niagara's  awful  roar 

Booms  through  the  vistas  green. 

And  now  the  mallet  falls,  stroke— stroke — 
On  prop  of  pine  and  wedge  of  oak ; 

The  vessel  feels  her  way ; 
The  quick  mechanics  leap  aside 
As,  rushing  downward  to  the  tide, 

She  dashes  them  with  spray. 
The  ready  warp  arrests  her  course 
And  holds  her  for  awhile  perforce, 
While  on  her  deck  the  merry  crew 
Man  every  rope,  loose  every  clew, 

And  spread  her  canvas  free. 
21 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

Away !  'tis  done !  the  Griffin  floats, 
First  of  Lake  Erie's  winged  boats  — 

Her  flag,  the  Fleur-de-lis. 
Gun  after  gun  proclaims  the  hour, 
As  nature  yields  to  human  power; 
And  now  upon  the  deeper  calm 
The  Indian  hears  the  holy  psalm  — 
Laudamus  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts ! 
Whose  name  unknown  on  all  their  coasts, 
The  inmost  wilderness  shall  know, 
Wafted  upon  yon  wings  of  snow 
That,  sinking  in  the  waters  blue, 
Seem  but  some  lake-bird  lost  in  view. 

In  old  romance  and  fairy  lays 
Its  wondrous  part  the  Griffin  plays ; 
Grimly  it  guards  the  gloomy  gate 
Sealed  by  the  strong  behest  of  Fate — 
Or,  spreading  its  portentous  wings, 
Wafts  Virgil  to  the  Court  of  Kings ; 
And  unto  scenes  as  wonderous  shall 
Thy  Griffin  bear  thee,  brave  La  Salle ! 
Thy  winged  steed  shall  stall  where  grows 
On  Michigan  the  sweet  wild  rose  ; 
Lost  in  the  mazes  of  St.  Clair, 
Shall  give  thee  hope  amid  despair, 
And  bear  thee  past  those  Isles  of  dread 
The  Huron  peoples  with  the  dead, 

22 


THOMAS   D'ARCY   McGEE 

Where  foot  of  savage  never  trod 
Within  the  precinct  of  his  god ;  * 
And  it  may  be  thy  lot  to  trace 
The  footprints  of  the  unknown  race 
Graved  on  Superior's  iron  shore, 
Which  knows  their  very  name  no  more. 

Through  scenes  so  vast  and  wrondrous  shall 
Thy  Griffin  bear  thee,  dear  La  Salle — 
True  Wizard  of  the  Wild !  whose  art,— 
An  eye  of  power,  a  knightly  heart, 
A  patient  purpose  silence-nursed, 
A  high,  enduring,  saintly  trust- 
Are  mighty  spells — we  honor  these, 
Columbus  of  the  inland  seas ! 


THE  IRISH  WIFE 

Earl  Desmond's  Apology. 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land ; 
I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  the  Queen  of  France's  hand ; 
For  she  to  me  is  dea,rer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands  or  life— 
An  outlaw— so  I'm  near  her, 

To  love  till  death  my  Irish  wife. 

*  The  Manitoulin  Isles,  in  Lake  Huron,  were  supposed  by  the  aborigines  to 
be  the  special  abode  of  the  great  Manitou,  and  were  feared  and  reverenced 
accordingly. 

23 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Oh,  what  would  be  this  home  of  mine— 

A  ruined,  hermit-haunted  place, 
But  for  the  light  that  nightly  shines 

Upon  its  walls  from  Kathleen's  face? 
What  comfort  is  a  mine  of  gold— 

What  pleasure  in  a  royal  life, 
If  the  heart  within  lay  dead  and  cold, 

If  I  could  not  wed  my  Irish  wife? 


I  knew  the  law  forbade  the  banns — 

I  knew  my  king  abhorred  her  race — 
Who  never  bent  before  their  clans, 

Must  bow  before  their  ladies'  grace. 
Take  all  my  forfeited  domain, 

I  cannot  wage  with  kinsmen  strife — 
Take  knightly  gear  and  noble  name, 

And  I  will  keep  my  Irish  wife. 


My  Irish  wife  has  clear  blue  eyes, 

My  heaven  by  day,  my  star  by  night, 
And  twin-like,  truth  and  fondness  lie 

Within  her  swelling  bosom  white. 
My  Irish  wife  has  golden  hair — 

Apollo's  harp  had  once  such  strings- 
Apollo's  self  might  pause  to  hear 

Her  bird-like  carol  when  she  sings. 

24 


THOMAS   D'AKCY   McGEE 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land ; 
I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  the  Queen  of  France's  hand ; 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life— 
In  death  I  would  lie  near  her, 

And  rise  beside  my  Irish  wife. 


25 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
GUY  H.  SALISBURY 

MY   MEERSCHAUM 

WE  are  friends  together,  we,  my  pipe  and  I ; 

In  the  wintry  weather,  we,  my  pipe  and  I, 

By  the  happy  fireside,  as  in  days  gone  by, 

Still  commune  together,  we,  my  pipe  and  I. 

In  the  sullen  winter,  when  the  snow  is  falling, 

When  the  skies  are  clouded  and  the  winds  are 

calling, 

We  revive  old  pleasures— count  our  hidden  treas 
ures — 
As  a  miser  counts  his  gold,  count  we  o'er  the  days 

of  old  - 
Thus  we  count  them  over,  we,  my  pipe  and  I. 

A  quaint  old  meerschaum  is  it,  the  bowl  is  carved 

exquisite,  , 

A  grim  Turk's  head  'tis  wrought  of,  as  grim  as 

e'er  was  thought  of — 
The  mouth-piece  rarest  amber,  and  its  perfume 

fills  my  chamber, 
Until  with  smoke  'tis  murky,  from  fragrant  weed 

of  Turkey — 
And  we  are  friends  together,  this  queer  old  pipe 

and  I. 
The  fragrant  clouds  are  murky,  the  Turk  seems 

talking  Turkey, 
And  thus  talk  we  together,  the  rare  old  pipe  and  I. 

26 


GUY   H.  SALISBURY 

Dearest  friends  have  left  me,  much  has  time  bereft 

me, 

But  still  we  keep  together,  we,  my  pipe  and  I. 
Cheerful  firesides  love  we,  as  in  days  gone  by. 
When  our  fortunes  vanish,  cares  they  often  banish! 
If  riches  go  we'll  let  them,  we  can  soon  forget  them, 
And  scarcely  shall  regret  them,  we,  my  pipe  and  I. 
Care  we  less  for  treasures  than  for  social  pleasures 
With  the  friends  still  left  us,  we,  my  pipe  and  I. 

When  the  smoke  is  curling,  with  its  curious  whirl 
ing. 

Trace  I,  in  the  vapor,  how  our  life's  brief  taper 
Dimly  burns  and  paleful,  in  the  darkness  baleful  — 
Burns  and  dies  like  thee,  my  pipe,  —like  my  pipe 

and  I! 

When  the  smoke  is  curling,  mazy  rings  unfurling, 
Just  like  love  it  seemeth,  when  the  young  heart 

dreameth. 

Is  it  thus  love  goeth,  as  its  passion  floweth  ? 
And  thus  to  thin  smoke  turneth  even  while  it 

burneth  ? 
Think  we  thus  together,  we,  my  pipe  and  I. 


"l  SCARCE  CAN  DEEM  IT  TRUE 

WHENE'ER  I  meet  some  graceful  girl 

Whose  mother  once  I  knew, 
In  years  long  gone,  when  we  were  young, 

I  scarce  can  deem  it  true 

27 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

That  she  has  grown  to  womanhood, 
Her  child  a  woman,  too ! 

And  when  I  see  a  prattling  babe 

Upon  its  grandma's  knee, 
Who  was  my  little  playmate  once, 

Perhaps  then  loved  by  me, 
It  seems  a  dream  —  I  musing  gaze, 

Half  doubting,  wonderingly ! 

The  busy  years  have  fled  so  fast, 

I  cannot  deem  them  gone— 
Though  youth's  companions  too  have  passed, 

While  I  have  wandered  on. 
Alas!  how  oft  their  names  are  found 

Upon  the  graveyard  stone ! 

I  stand  upon  the  sandy  shore 

Where  once  I  sought  the  wave, 
And  loved  to  hear  the  billows  roar 

That  now  my  footsteps  lave ; 
Where  are  my  mates  who  sported  there  ? 

No  answer  gives  the  grave ! 

And  still  the  years  are  crowding  on, 

Each  leaves  some  friend  behind, 
Until  my  path  is  lonely  now, 

And  scarcely  can  I  find 
Amid  the  throng  that  pass  along 

One  link  with  human  kind ! 

The  golden  sun  is  still  the  same, 
Fair  Nature's  charms  as  new, 

28 


GUY   H.  SALISBURY 

The  wild-flower  wears  as  sweet  a  smile, 

The  sky  as  bright  a  blue— 
But  all  things  else  so  changed  appear, 

I  scarce  can  deem  it  true ! 


TO  MOLLY 

LITTLE  MOLLY  !  sprightly  elf, 
Frolicsome  as  mischief's  self, 

Pure  as  moonlight, 

Glad  as  noonlight, 
May  thy  heart  ne'er  yield  to  folly, 
Charming,  darling,  little  Molly ! 

In  life's  troubled  times  of  sorrow, 
When  I  dread  the  sad  to-morrow, 
Thy  sweet  presence  gladness  brings, 
And  baffled  Care  takes  sudden  wings  — 
For  who  would  woo  pale  Melancholy 
When  dances  in  dear,  bright-eyed  Molly  ? 

Only  summers  five  have  shed 
Girlish  graces  o'er  thy  head, 
Yet  thou  winnest  love  that  never 
Seeks  those  maidens  fair,  who  ever 
Flirt  and  flaunt — not  Maud,  nor  Polly, 
Kate,  nor  Jane,  can  vie  with  Molly ! 

Sober  age  loves  childhood's  smile, 
That  weary  hours  may  well  beguile ; 
Cheerily  doth  young  heart's  laughter 
Cheat  of  gloom  the  dark  hereafter. 
29 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

E'en  a  hermit  would  be  jolly, 
For  a  day,  with  joyous  Molly ! 

Little  Molly !    Youth  to  thee 

Seems  a  constant  holiday ; 

But  life's  griefs  must  come  ere  long, 

As  storms  will  hush  the  wild  bird's  song — 

Yet  heed  not  now,  and  dress  thy  "  dolly," 

For  swift  flees  girlhood,  little  Molly ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  BURNING  OF  THE  AMERICAN 
HOTEL,  JANUARY  25,   1865  * 

OH,  Fiend  of  Fire ! 

Has  not  old  Death  enough  who  wait 
Each  step  that  enters  at  Life's  gate  — 
Bloodhounds  held  in  the  leash  of  Fate, 

Whose  still  feet  never  tire? 

The  Fiend  of  War  — 

Red  Angel  at  Death's  own  right  hand  — 
Rolls  he  not  o'er  the  trembling  land, 
While  troops  behind,  a  myriad  band, 

His  blood-dyed,  crushing  car? 

The  Fiend  Disease, 
With  fearful  mystic  Pestilence, 
Whose  unseen  stroke  appals  each  sense, 
Sparing  nor  Youth  nor  Innocence, 

Nor  maid  on  bended  knees. 


*The  death  of  three  young  men  of  social  prominence,  James  H.  Sidway, 

7  Tifft,  who  were  killed  by  a  falling 
caused  this  fire  to  be  long  remem- 


'     A.UQ   U.C3C*UJLA    Ul      LI  11  CO  JfUUi-lg    UICU    V*     OWFVJ1CH 

William  Henry  Gillet,  and  George  Henry  Tifft,  who  were  killed  by  a  falling 
wall,  while  serving  as  volunteer  firemen,  cau 


bered. 

30 


GUY   H.  SALISBURY 

The  Fiend  of  Want, 
Who  haunts  the  cabin  of  the  Poor, 
And  enters  at  its  humble  door, 
Filching  away  its  scanty  store, 

With  fingers  cold  and  gaunt. 

The  Fiend  of  Crime, 
Who  lures  within  his  toils  of  Sin 
Each  soul  his  hellish  art  can  win  — 
And  lost  each  soul  who  enters  in  !•— 

Fatal  the  serpent's  slime ! 

Oh,  Foes  of  Man ! 
Doth  not,  alas !  such  stern  array 
Call  dreadful  thoughts,  with  pale  dismay, 
In  every  heart  of  human  clay?  — 

Rests  not  a  fateful  ban 

On  all  who  live 

Within  this  world  of  saddest  strife  ? 
League  not  dire  ills  against  our  life, 
Fell  woes  with  which  all  paths  are  rife, 

To  hunt  each  fugitive? 

Why,  Fiend  of  Fire! 
Bring  crimson  minions  of  the  flame 
Our  chosen  sons  to  fiercely  claim  — 
To  bind  dear  ones,  of  cherished  name, 
Upon  thy  funeral  pyre  ? 

BUFFALO,  Feb.  18,  1865. 


31 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

BUFFALO 

BY  Erie's  blue  and  sparkling  sea 

The  tangled  forest  grew, 
And  red  men  o'er  the  silver  waves 

Paddled  the  light  canoe. 
No  pale-face  then  had  sought  its  shore, 
With  rail,  or  steam,  or  venturous  oar, 

To  wake  the  echoes  there; 
The  wild  beast  ranged  the  solemn  wood 
To  find  in  its  dim  solitude 

His  rude  and  lonely  lair. 

The  white  men  came  to  make  their  homes 

Amid  the  wilderness, 
And  back  the  savage  tribes  recede 

As  on  the  intruders  press. 
The  forests  sink — the  plough's  sharp  edge 

Soon  cleaves  the  virgin  soil, 
And  waving  harvest-fields  repay 

The  thoughtful  sower's  toil. 
The  village  streets  on  every  side 

Their  lengthened  lines  extend, 
And  dwellings  rise,  whose  circling  smoke 

From  household  hearths  ascend. 

Fair  Commerce  comes  and  spreads  the  sail, 

Her  engines  vex  the  tide, 
And  broad  canals  rich  products  bear 

To  Ocean's  distant  side. 
Art  comes  and  rears  the  stately  pile — 

Temples  of  the  Living  God  — 

32 


GUY   H.  SALISBURY 

And  beauteous  homes  adorn  the  spot 
Where  savage  men  abode. 

History  her  classic  store  outspreads, 

And  Genius  wakes  the  lyre, 
And  workers  shape  their  wondrous  things 

By  forge  and  furnace  fire. 
A  teeming  city  stands  to-day 

Where  once  the  hamlet  stood, 
And  lofty  spires  their  shafts  uprear 

Where  waved  the  sylvan  wood. 

No  hoary  seat  of  ancient  lore 

Hath  here  scholastic  bowers, 
But  Learning  yet  hath  many  shrines 

In  this  dear  home  of  ours. 
The  people's  sons,  or  rich  or  poor, 

Her  priceless  boon  may  share, 
And  Wisdom's  mines  reward  but  toil 

And  earnest  delvers  there. 

The  future  largest  promise  gives 

Of  glories  yet  to  come, 
And  busy  Toil  shall  fill  our  streets 

With  traffic's  ceaseless  hum. 
"Excelsior"  gleams  upon  the  shield 

Borne  by  our  Empire  State, 
And  its  proud  motto  'tis  our  aim 

To  grandly  emulate ! 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


MRS.  H.  E.  G.  AREY 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM  ENTITLED   "MYSELF" 

I  always  knew  how  many  boughs 

The  latest  tempest  broke, 
And  just  how  far  the  woodpecker 

Had  girdled  round  the  oak. 

I  knew  the  tree  where  slept  the  crows, 

And,  on  the  water's  brim, 
I  climbed  among  the  hemlock  boughs 

To  watch  the  fishes  swim. 

I  knew,  beside  the  swollen  rill, 

What  flowers  to  bloom  would  burst, 

And  where,  upon  the  south-sloped  hill, 
The  berries  ripened  first. 

Each  violet  tuft,  each  cowslip  green, 

Each  daisy  on  the  lea, 
I  counted  one  by  one— for  they 

Were  kith  and  kin  to  me. 

I  knew  the  moles  that  dared  to  claim 

The  banished  beavers'  huts, 
And  sat  on  mossy  logs  to  watch 

The  squirrels  crack  their  nuts. 

And  they  winked  slyly  at  me,  too, 

But  never  fled  away, 
For  in  their  little  hearts  they  knew 

That  I  was  wild  as  they. 

34 


MKS.  H.  E.  G.  AKEY 

And  always  in  the  winter,  too, 

Before  the  breakfast  time, 
I  wandered  o'er  the  crusted  snow 

To  hear  the  waters  chime ; 

To  see  how  thick  the  ice  had  grown, 

And  where  the  hasty  spray 
Its  jewels  o'er  the  shrubs  had  thrown 

In  such  a  curious  way ; 

And  in  a  little  cavern  where 
The  waters  trickled  through, 

The  shape  of  every  icicle 

That  gemmed  its  sides  I  knew ; 

For  there  were  hermits'  huts,  and  towers, 

And  cities  grand  and  gay, 
And  Alpine  peaks  and  tropic  flowers, 

And  fairer  things  than  they ; 

For  oft  the  sun  came  glinting  through 
The  chinks  some  ice  lens  spanned, 

And  decked  in  many  a  rainbow  hue 
Those  scenes  of  fairy  land. 


GENERAL  RILEY 

They  bear  him  forth,  they  bear  him  forth, 

And  many  a  cheek  is  wet, 
For  throngs  that  mark  a  hero's  worth 

Shall  hoard  his  memory  yet ; 

35 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And,  linked  with  many  a  noble  thought, 

The  tide  of  song  shall  swell 
Aloft,  the  name  of  him  who  fought 

His  country's  battles  well, 
And  when  the  clash  of  war  was  o'er, 
The  wreath  of  victory  proudly  wore. 

He  sleeps  at  last,  he  sleeps  at  last ! 

On  many  a  blood-stained  plain 
The  death-winged  volleys  o'er  him  passed, 

And  from  his  brethren  slain, 
And  from  the  desert's  burning  track, 

And  from  the  tropic  sky, 
He  bore  his  crown  of  glory  back, 

Amid  his  friends  to  die. 
Fold  well  his  mantle  round  his  breast, 
And  let  the  war-scarred  hero  rest. 

His  kindling  eye  shall  flash  no  more 

'Mid  hosts  for  battle  met ; 
His  ear  shall  heed  no  cannon  roar— 

No  bugle  rouse  him  yet ; 
The  heart  that  never  quailed  with  fear 

Where  fields  are  lost  and  won 
Hath  met  its  own  stern  conqueror  here ; 

The  soldier's  task  is  done. 
The  sword  that  blazed  yon  hosts  amid 
Lies  sheathed  upon  his  coffin  lid. 

Aye,  pour  your  martial  music  forth  — 
Bring  requiems  for  the  dead, 

36 


MRS.  H.  E.  G.  AREY 

And  weep  that  from  yon  lonely  hearth 

A  noble  heart  has  fled. 
The  wild-wood  trees  above  his  tomb 

Their  victor-wreaths  shall  wave, 
And  flowers  shall  waste  their  early  bloom 

In  fragrance  round  his  grave. 
Fold  well  his  mantle  round  his  breast, 
And  let  the  war-scarred  hero  rest. 


RING,   ROYAL  BELLS 

RING  royal  bells — ring  out  great  chime ! 

Thrill  with  your  joy  the  glowing  air ! 
Make  jubilant  this  blissful  time — 

This  hour  of  hours— this  moment  rare! 
Ring  royal  bells !    peal  wide  your  notes, 
O'er  Richmond's  town  "  Old  Glory  "  floats ! 

Roar  cannon !    bid  the  hills  resound ! 

Let  every  flag  its  folds  display  ! 
Repeat  the  good  news  round  and  round ; 

The  cause  of  Freedom  wins  to-day ! 
Aye,  pour  it  from  your  brazen  throats, 
O'er  Richmond's  walls  "  Old  Glory  "  floats ! 

Ring  bells !    roar  cannon !    shout  each  tongue ! 

The  chains  have  fallen !    the  free  land  lives ! 
Wide  be  your  notes  of  music  flung ! 

The  Lord  of  Hosts  our  victory  gives. 
Peal  on,  nor  let  your  clangor  cease ! 
The  victory  that  foreshadows  Peace. 

37 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Oh !  bid  the  welcome  news  God-speed, 
Through  every  vale  and  hamlet  lone, 

On  lightning  wires,  or  foaming  steed, 
For  be  our  God's  great  mercy  known, 

That  to  His  name  all  praise  may  be 

Who  giveth  us  the  Victory. 

Their  doom  was  sealed  when  Grant  sat  down, 
With  his  broad  brows,  and  drooping  head, 

Calmly  before  the  Rebel  town, 

And  wove  his  web  with  shining  thread,— 

The  web  that  all  their  armies  spanned 

And  palsied  each  rebellious  hand. 

Like  icebergs  that  the  sun  has  kissed, 
With  neither  power  to  fight  nor  fly  ; 

How  have  their  hosts  dissolved  in  mist, 
Exhaled  before  his  lion  eye, 

Till  wild  with  joy  the  hills  resound 

With  conquest  sure  our  arms  are  crowned. 


THANK  GOD!  THERE'S  STILL  A  VANGUARD 

THANK  God !    there's  still  a  vanguard 

Fighting  for  the  right ! 
Though  the  throng  flock  to  rearward, 

Lifting,  ashen  white, 
Flags  of  truce  to  sin  and  error, 
Clasping  hands,  mute  with  terror, 
Thank  God !  there's  still  a  vanguard 

Fighting  for  the  right. 

38 


MRS.  H.  E.  G.  AREY 

Through  the  wilderness  advancing, 

Hewers  of  the  way ; 
Forward  far  their  spears  are  glancing, 

Flashing  back  the  day. 
"  Back !"  the  leaders  cry,  who  fear  them ; 
"  Back !"  from  all  the  army  near  them ; 
They  with  steady  tread  advancing, 

Cleave  their  certain  way. 

Slay  them— from  each  drop  that  falleth 

Springs  a  hero  armed ; 
Where  the  martyr's  fire  appalleth, 

Lo !  they  pass  unharmed ; 
Crushed  beneath  thy  wheel,  Oppression, 
How  their  spirits  hold  possession, 
How  the  dross-purged  voice  out-calleth, 

By  the  death-throes  warmed. 

Thank  God !  there's  still  a  vanguard 

Fighting  for  the  right ! 
Error's  legions  know  their  standard, 

Floating  in  the  light. 
When  the  league  of  sin  rejoices, 
Quick  outsing  their  rallying  voices, — 
Thank  God !  there's  still  a  vanguard 

Fighting  for  the  right ! 


39 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


I'VE  met  her  many  a  day, 
With  a  soft  child-like  footstep  hurrying  by, 

And  ever,  like  the  summer's  sunniest  ray, 
That  vision  flits  before  my  raptured  eye. 

Morning's  first  beam 
Portrays  the  image  to  my  wakening  sight, 

And  glorious  still,  in  every  changing  dream, 
She  flits  before  me  like  a  thing  of  light. 

In  color,  like  pale  gold 
Are  the  soft  locks  that  round  her  forehead  twine 

And  wreathe  in  many  a  bright  and  waving  fold 
The  breeze-blown  roses  from  her  cheeks  that  shine. 

A  warm,  pure  smile  she  wears, 
And  the  clear  brow  of  one  whose  steps  have  trod 

Along  life's  path,  unwitting  of  its  cares, 
Half-way  from  infancy  to  womanhood. 

And  from  her  heaven-tinged  eyes 
A  glance  of  confidence  and  love  looks  forth,— 

The  upward  gushing  of  a  fount  that  lies 
Deep-hid,  and  guileless  of  the  taints  of  earth. 

The  name  she  bears 
I  have  not  learned,  nor  questioned ;  'tis  enough 

To  gaze  upon  a  face  like  that  she  wears, 
And  bear  its  memory  on  life's  journey  rough. 

It  makes  a  glow 
In  the  sad,  homeless  heart,  and  bids  it  turn 

40 


MRS.  H.  E.  G.  AREY 

Back  from  the  crowded  page  of  human  woe, 
And  more  of  life's  free,  priceless  blessings  learn. 

Like  a  kind  word 
To  the  faint  pilgrim,  on  his  weary  way, 

The   warm   heart-sunshine  of   her   look   hath 

stirred 
My  heart's  sweet  waters  into  joyous  play. 

What  I  have  said  — 
That  she  hath  breathed  the  breeze  on  Erie's  shore, 

And  trod  the  walks  that,  day  by  day,  I  tread, 
And  quaffed  the  light, — this  know  I,  and  no  more. 

But  there  shall  dwell, 
Ever,  a  grateful  feeling  in  my  heart, 

To  those  who  trained  that  heaven-born  soul  so 

well 
And  Him  who  could  such  matchless  grace  impart. 

For  unto  me 
It  hath  been  like  the  gifts  of  light,  or  air, 

Or  bursting  flowers  — more  prized  because  I  see 
The  holy  smile  of  Heaven  reflected  there. 


THE  DEAD  OFF  CAPE  RACE 

THE  blanching  wave  along  Cape  Race  in  terror 

shrieks  and  foams, 

While  broods  above  the  restless  sea  the  Phan 
tom  of  Despair ; 

41 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  waves  have  quenched  the  love-light  that  lit  a 

"hundred  homes ; 

The  music  of  a  myriad  hearts  lies  hushed  for 
ever  there. 

And  human  sorrow  o'er  that  spot  full  long  shall 

watch  and  weep, 

And  hear  again  its  moan  of  Death— its  trumpet- 
blast  of  woe, 
Though  still  the  sun  in  beauty  rides  above  that 

charnel  deep  — 

That  ship  that  hath  the  waves  above,    and 
gallant  hearts  below. 

Calmly  to  that  baptismal  font  of  future  life  they 

went, 
For  whom  the  welcome  fires  were  lit  by  earthly 

hearthside  fair. 
A  rush  of  spirit  wings  proclaimed  their  flight  far 

heavenward  bent, 

And  wherefore  keeps  that  sullen  sea  its  croak- 
ings  of  despair  ? 

Ah,  swiftly  closed  Death's  temple-vail,  and  Heaven 

hath  shut  them  in, 
And  to  the  fiery  storm  of  grief  the  quivering 

heart  lies  bare ; 
While  white  with  terror  on  Cape  Eace  still  foams 

the  sounding  main, 

The  love-light  of  a  hundred  homes  lies  quenched 
forever  there. 


AGNES   D.  EMERSON 


AGNES   D.  EMERSON* 

I  SIT  ALONE 

RAINY  is  the  sky ! 
And  the  winds  are  blowing  cool 
Over  the  splashing  pool, 
The  clayey  ooze  and  the  drowned  grass, 
And  lashing  the  lengths  of  rain,  as  they  pass, 
Like  scourges  against  my  window  glass, 
With  many  a  sough  and  sigh. 

And  here  I  sit  alone, 
Though  the  world  is  a  full,  and  a  broad,  and 

a  deep 

With  nothing  but  winds  to  help  me  moan, 
And  nothing  but  rains  to  help  me  weep. 

My  heart,  like  that  strange  druidical  stone 

That  is  poised  on  a  desolate  cliff  in  Wales, 
In  its  native  midnight,  unseen  and  unknown, 

Is  rocked  by  passionate  gales. 

But  of  all  my  sorrows,  it  is  most  sad 
To  keep  sighing  still,  in  this  dreary  tone : 

" I  once  had  friends— I  had  — I  had!  " 
Ah,  heart !  to  think  that  this  dark  old  house 

Once  echoed  with  voices  and  steps  more  glad 
Than  those  of  the  cricket  and  the  mouse ! 
My  eyes  are  tear-blinded,  but  full  are  my  ears 

Of  a  melancholy  sound  of  rain  — 
Of  rain  upon  the  roof; 

*  Probably  an  assumed  name.    The  writer  is  unknown. 
43 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Till  I  dream  that  all  moments  which  filled  the 

train 
Of  many  and  many  departed  years, 

Are  hurried  back,  at  my  soul's  behoof— 
On  airy  bridges  I  hear  them  cross, 

Those  numberless  little  trampling  feet  — 

Above  me  they  go  with  a  rapid  beat, 

And  my  heart  is  o'erflo  wed  with  a  sudden  sweet. 
Now — now  to  recover  all  its  loss ! 

Now— now— and  I  almost  think  to  meet 
The  old-time  glances  of  laughing  eyes, 
Till  the  loud  wind  wakes,  with  its  startling  sighs, 
The  thought  that  never  dies : 

That  here  I  sit  alone, 

Though  the  world  is  a  full,  and  a  broad,  and 
a  deep, 

With  nothing  but  winds  to  help  me  moan, 
And  nothing  but  rains  to  help  me  weep. 


4.4 


RACHEL   BUCHANAN   GILDERSLEEVE 


RACHEL    BUCHANAN   GILDERSLEEVE 

LATEX  MRS.  GILDERSLEEVE  LONGSTREET 
HOMESICK 

HOMESICK   for  the  waves'  low  murmur   by  blue 

Erie's  pebbled  shore, 
Homesick   for   the  vines   that   clamber   lovingly 

about  my  door, 
Homesick  for  familiar  faces  that  will  smile  on  me 

no  more. 
Homesick  for  the  days  now  ended,  passed  from 

sunshine  into  gloom, 
Homesick  in  this  stately  palace,  where  a  fettered 

child  I  roam ; 
Homesick  in  the  frescoed  grandeur  for  my  dear  old 

cottage  home. 
Homesick    for    the    silent    voices — tones   whose 

melody  has  ceased, 
Homesick  in  this  worldly  bondage,  struggling  to 

be  released ; 
Homesick  at  this  splendid  banquet,  longing  for  a 

simpler  feast. 
Homesick   for   the   dewy   roses  — roses    are    not 

fragrant  here, 
Homesick  for  the  stars  above  them  —  there  they 

seem  so  very  near, 
Bending  downward  in  the  twilight;    now  they 

glitter  far  and  drear. 

45 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  the  arras  of  the  present  lifts  its  foldings  in 

my  sleep, 
And  the  blossoms,  stars  and  loved  ones  waft  me 

benedictions  deep, 
And  the  morning,  nor  the  real,  cannot  clutch  the 

kiss  I  keep. 
Necromancers,  weird  and  pitying,  take  me  back  in 

dreams  to  dwell, 
Soothe  my  lonely,  homesick  spirit — string  the  lute 

and  mend  the  shell ; 
And  I  sing,  and  sing,  and  listen,  under  memory's 

subtle  spell. 


SUMMERS  THAT    WERE 

WHITE  ripples  rose  up  with  a  low,  sweet  song, 
And  music  swept  over  my  young  heart's  core ; 

They  chanted  and  laughed  the  green  summer  long, 
And  they'll  ripple  and  chant  no  more,  no  more ! 

They  petted  the  shells  on  the  low,  sloped  shore, 
Those  waves  with  a  silvery,  floating  fringe ; 

And  brought  to  them  hues  from  coraline  caves, 
To  give  to  their  lips  a  rosier  tinge. 

How  silent  I  sit  in  the  spring's  soft  glow, 
And  leashes  of  light,  and  violets  stir, 

Bring  back,  with  the  deep  sea's  musical  flow, 
Memory's  mirage  of  summers  that  were. 

Weird  minnesingers,  whom  nobody  hears, 
Faces  of  angels  whom  nobody  sees, 

46 


RACHEL   BUCHANAN   GILDEKSLEEVE 

Bring  me  the  summers  long  buried  with  tears, 
And  tell  their  days  over  in  moments  like  these. 

Blow,  blow  to  me,  south  wind,  bring  my  dreams 

back, 

With  surging  of  ocean,  and  sea-shell's  hum, 
Then  manna  shall  drop  on  my  desolate  track, 
And   out  from  the  vanished  years,  happiness 
come. 

0  ripples,  rise  up  with  your  low,  soft  song ! 

Sweet  music,  sweep  over  my  sad  heart's  core ! 
'Twill  seem  like  the  tones  of  that  jubilant  throng, 

Who  drifted  from  life,  leaving  me  on  the  shore. 
BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


MRS.   LOFTY  AND  I 

MRS.  LOFTY  keeps  a  carriage, 

So  do  I; 
She  has  dappled  greys  to  draw  it, 

None  have  I ; 
With  my  blue-eyed,  laughing  baby 

Trundling  by, 

I  hide  his  face,  lest  she  should  see 
The  cherub  boy  and  envy  me. 

Her  fine  husband  has  white  fingers, 

Mine  has  not; 
He  could  give  his  bride  a  palace — 

Mine,  a  cot ; 

47 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

Her's  comes  home  beneath  the  starlight  — 

Ne'er  cares  she ; 
Mine  comes  in  the  purple  twilight, 

Kisses  me, 

And  prays  that  He  who  turns  life's  sands, 
Will  hold  his  loved  ones  in  His  hands. 

Mrs.  Lofty  has  her  jewels, 

So  have  I ; 
She  wears  her's  upon  her  bosom  — 

Inside,  I ; 
She  will  leave  her's  at  Death's  portals, 

Bye  and  bye ; 
I  shall  bear  my  treasures  with  me 

When  I  die ; 

For  I  have  love  and  she  has  gold  — 
She  counts  her  wealth  — mine  can't  be  told. 

She  has  those  who  love  her,— station, 

None  have  I ; 
But  I've  one  true  heart  beside  me,— 

Glad  am  I ; 
I'd  not  change  it  for  a  Kingdom, 

No,  not  I ; 
God  will  weight  it  in  His  balance, 

Bye  and  bye ; 
And  the  difference  define 
'Twixt  Mrs.  Lofty's  wealth  and  mine. 


48 


REV.  JOHN  C.  LORD,  D.D. 
REV.  JOHN  C.  LORD,  D.D. 

BUFFALO 

QUEEN  of  the  Lakes,  whose  tributary  seas 
Stretch  from  the  frozen  regions  of  the  North 

To  southern  climates,  where  the  wanton  breeze 
O'er  field  and  forest  goes  rejoicing  forth, 

As  Venice  to  the  Adriatic  Sea 

Was  wedded  in  her  brief,  but  glorious  day, 
So  broader,  purer  waters  are  for  thee, 

To  whom  a  thousand  streams  a  dowry  pay. 

What  tho'  the  wild  winds  o'er  thy  waters  sweep, 
While  lingering  Winter  howls  along  thy  shore, 

And  solemnly  "deep  calleth  unto  deep " 

While  storm  and  cataract  responsive  roar. 

'Tis  music  fitting  for  the  brave  and  free, 

Where  enterprise  and  commerce  vex  the  waves ; 

The  soft,  voluptuous  airs  of  Italy 

Breathe  among  ruins,  and  are  woo'd  by  slaves. 

Thou  art  the  sovereign  city  of  the  lakes, 

Crowned  and  acknowledged ;  may  thy  fortunes 

be 

Vast  as  the  domain  which  thine  empire  takes, 
And  onward,  as  thy  waters  to  the  sea. 
49 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

NEW  CEMETERY  NEAR  BUFFALO 

PLACE  for  the  dead— 
Not  in  the  noisy  city's  crowd  and  glare, 
By  heated  walls  and  dusty  streets,  but  where 
The  balmy  breath  of  the  free  summer  air 
Moves  murmuring  softly  o'er  the  new-made  grave, 
Rustling  among  the  boughs  which  wave 

Above  the  dwellers  there. 

Rest  for  the  dead — 

Far,  far  from  the  turmoil  and  strife  of  trade, 
Let  the  broken  house  of  the  soul  be  laid, 
Where  the  violets  blossom  in  the  shade, 
And  the  voices  of  nature  do  softly  fall 
O'er  the  silent  sleepers  ail- 
Where  rural  graves  are  made. 

Room  for  the  dead — 

Away  from  the  crowded  and  ghastly  caves, 
Where  the  dead  lie  heaped  and  the  thick-strewn 

graves 

Do  jostle  each  other  like  following  waves — 
Jn  the  place  where  earth's  broad  bosom  yields, 
Room  for  the  dead,  in  woods  and  fields, 

Which  dying  nature  craves. 

Place  for  the  dead— 

In  the  quiet  glen  where  the  wild  vines  creep, 
And  the  desolate  mourner  may  wait  and  weep, 
In  some  silent  place,  o'er  the  loved  who  sleep ; 

50 


KEV.  JOHN   C.  LORD,  D.D. 

Nor    sights,    nor   sounds    profane,  disturb    their 

moan — 

With  God  and  with  the  dead  alone— 
"Deep  calleth  unto  deep/' 

Rest  for  the  dead — 

Away  from  all  walls — where  the  wild  bird  sings, 
And  the  hurrying  cloud  its  shadow  flings 
O'er  streamlet  and  rock,  where  the  ivy  clings 
To  the  ancient  oak— the  dead  should  lie, 
Till  on  the  ear  of  death  the  cry 

Of  final  judgment  rings. 

Room  for  the  dead — 

The  living  wait  their  doom,  the  gay,  the  strong, 
The  beautiful— together  soon  must  throng 
The  doors  of  death,  and  they  who  mourn,  ere  long 
Must  lie  with  kindred  dust,  and  soon  or  late, 
All  pass  the  ever  open  gate — 

Room —room  —  Oh !  give  them  room ! 


FORWARD!  MARCH! 

Dedicated  to  the  Union  Continentals  by  their  Chaplain. 

FOR  altars  and  for  firesides, 

For  the  country  and  for  God, 

For  the  State  our  fathers  founded, 
For  the  soil  on  which  they  trod, 

For  loyal  brethren  trembling 
Beneath  a  traitor's  nod — 
Forward!  March! 

51 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

From  the  rugged  wilds  of  Maine, 

From  New  Hampshire's  mountains  gray, 

From  Freedom's  wave-washed  cradle 
By  Massachusetts  Bay, 

From  all  New  England's  valleys 
And  hilltops,  far  away- 
Forward!  March! 

From  the  basin  of  the  Hudson, 

From  the  cities  on  its  shore, 
From  the  borders  of  the  stormy  Lakes 

Who  wake  Niagara's  roar, 
From  Pennsylvania's  fields  of  coal 

And  her  beds  of  iron  ore — 
Forward!  March! 

From  fair  Ohio's  loyal  States, 

From  all  her  fertile  plains, 
From  every  flower-clad  prairie 

Which  the  Mississippi  drains, 
From  California's  rocky  walls, 

Rich  with  their  golden  veins  — 
Forward!  March! 

From  Treason's  prostrate  bulwarks, 
Where  the  vaunting  foe  was  met, 

Where  rebel  standards  fell  before 
The  avenging  bayonet ; 

From  Cumberland's  ensanguined  shore, 
With  blood  of  Patriots  wet  — 
Forward!  March! 

52 


REV.  JOHN   C.  LORD,  D.D. 

From  the  Potomac's  guarded  banks, 
From  the  shores  of  the  Tennessee, 
From  Hatteras  to  Hilton  Head, 

From  Pickens  and  Tybee ; 
From  every  point  on  every  line 
From  the  mountains  to  the  sea — 
Forward!  March! 

For  altars  and  for  firesides, 
For  the  Country  and  for  God, 

For  the  State  our  fathers  founded, 
For  the  soil  on  which  they  trod, 

For  loyal  brethren  trembling 
Beneath  a  traitor's  nod — 
Forward!  March! 


TO  JAMES  O.   PUTNAM,   ESQ. 

How  often,  James,  thy  thoughts  do  overleap 
The  narrow  boundary  of  our  working  life, 
Which  seems  to  thee  but  an  ignoble  strife, 

Where  none  do  walk  upright,  but  only  creep 

To  their  mean  ends ;  a  harvest,  which  to  reap 
Demands  a  hardened  heart  and  sharpened  knife, 
A  soul  with  petty,  selfish  interests  rife. 

So  gifted  men  repine ;  yet  in  the  deep 
And  awful  counsels  of  the  Eternal  King, 

Our  daily  life  doth  make  our  destiny ; 
For  this  world's  labors  no  defilement  bring 

53 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

To  him  who,  faithful  in  his  passing  day, 

Knows  that  its  fleeting  moments  ever  fling 
Their  lasting  shadows  on  Eternity. 


TO  A  FLOWER  IN  THE   DESERT 

Suggested  by  an  incident  in  the  life  of  Mungo  Park,  the  African  Traveler. 

SWEET  Flower,  lone  dweller  in  the  Desert  Wild ! 

Drinking  the  scanty  dews,  and  cherished  there 

By  Him  who  made  thee ;  e'en  the  tainted  air 
And  driving  sands  did  pass  thee  un defiled 
And  blooming  still ;  a  Traveler,  beguiled 

By  mocking  Mirage,  wandered  feebly  where 

Thy  tiny  blossoms  blushed ;  in  dull  despair 
He  laid  him  down,  and  feeble  as  a  child, 

Hungry  and  faint,  he  cast  all  hope  away ; 
But  God  had  planted  thee  his  life  to  save ; 

For  when  he  spied  thee  as  he  listless  lay, 
His  heart  revived,  he  thought  of  Him  who  gave 

Life  to  the  desert  flower  and  rose  to  pray, 
And  long  years  after  found  another  grave. 


54 


EMILY   BRYANT   LORD 
EMILY   BRYANT    LORD 

HYMN  FOR  THE  VOICELESS 

From  "Hymns  and  Songs  for  the  Voiceless." 

MAKER  of  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 

Creation's  Sovereign,  Lord  and  King, 

Who  hung  the  starry  worlds  on  high, 
And  formed  alike  the  sparrow's  wing, 

Bless  the  dumb  creatures  of  Thy  care, 

And  listen  to  their  voiceless  prayer. 

For  us  they  toil,  for  us  they  die, — 

These  humbler  creatures  God  has  made; 

How  shall  we  dare  their  rights  deny 
On  whom  God's  seal  of  love  is  laid ! 

Kindness  to  them  is  mercy's  plea, 

So  deal  with  them  as  God  with  thee. 


55 


POETS  AND   POETKY   OF   BUFFALO 


DAVID   WENTWORTH 

LAMENT  OF  THE  GREEK  SLAVE 

THIS  CHAIN  !  this  chain ! 

Why  should  I  fettered  be? 
I  sigh —  I  pant  in  vain 

For  liberty ! 

Across  the  sea's  salt  foam, 

To  my  own  wild  mountain  home, 

They  ruthless  came ; 
And  as  I  chased  life's  sunny  hours  away, 

With  hopes  as  bright, 

And  steps  as  light, 
As  any  woodland  fay  — 

They  seized  my  trembling  frame. 

I  saw  my  brothers  die ; 

I  felt  my  mother's  pains ; 

I  saw  my  sire  with  bleeding  veins 
Across  the  threshold  lie ; 
And  he  who  taught  me  first  to  love— 

Who  claimed  me  for  his  bride — 
His  valiant  soul  disdained  to  yield ; 
His  trusty  sword  I  saw  him  wield ; 
But  all  in  vain — in  vain  he  strove, 

And  all  in  vain  he  died ! 

Could  fate  be  more  unkind  ? 
My  sisters,  too,  with  arms  entwined 
About  my  neck  did  vainly  cling, 

56 


DAVID   WENTWOKTH 

As  if  to  seize  my  parting  breath. 
They  too,  they  too,  oh,  God !  must  feel  this  sting 
That's  worse  than  death ! 

What  am  I  now?  what  must  I  be? 
Like  the  keen  dagger's  piercing  steel 
Within  my  breast  I  shuddering  feel, 

And  the  dread  future  see. 
Was  there  no  friendly  blade, 
Which  such  sad  havoc  made 

'Mong  those  I  loved,  reserved  for  me? 

My  heart— my  heart  is  desolate, 
And  not  one  ray  of  sunshine  lingers  there; 
No  hope  — no  sense,  but  that  of  misery,  left. 
Of  friends,  of  home,  of  love  and  Heaven  bereft, 
Not  even  death  will  save  me  from  despair ; 

Too  well,  alas !  too  well,  I  know  my  fate. 

Could  I  but  free  these  arms, 
I'd  rend  these  hated  charms 

From  off  my  brow, 
Which  Heaven  so  kindly  gave— 
And  he  has  praised  so  oft 

Who  now 
By  Moslem  tongues  so  vilely  scoffed, 

Lies  in  a  bloody  grave. 

But  ah,  this  chain !  this  chain ! 
*  It  fetters  life  to  me ; 
I  sigh— I  pant  in  vain 
For  liberty! 

57 


POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
MATILDA  H.  STUART 

NOVEMBER 

MONTH  of  my  birth,  I  bring  to  thee 

This  tribute  of  ray  fond  regret, 
And  bind  around  thy  solemn  brow 

The  few  bright  leaves  that  linger  yet. 
Thou  art  the  Anchorite  of  months, 

Thou  turnest  from  their  hope  and  bloom, 
And  clad  in  mantle  brown  and  gray, 

Art  moving  onward  into  gloom. 

The  Springtime  hath  its  fragrant  buds, 

Its  whispers  from  the  birds  and  streams, 
And  Summer  blushes  into  life 

The  April  loves  and  May-day  dreams  ; 
September  bears  her  wealth  of  grain ; 

October,  nuts  and  leaves  of  gold  — 
And  even  Winter,  with  its  snow 

"  Rings  in  the  new,  rings  out  the  old." 

But  thou,  November,  thou  art  left 

With  few  to  sigh  for  all  thy  woes, 
None  dare  to  kiss  the  Anchorite, 

Or  e'en  to  bless  him  ere  he  goes. 
The  cynic  greets  thee  with  a  sneer, 

The  sceptic  draws  his  text  from  thee, 
And  boasts  that  heart  and  soul  alike, 

Shall  share  thy  cheerless  destiny. 

58 


MATILDA   H.  STUART 

But,  dear  old  hermit,  I  will  come 

And  press  my  lips  upon  thy  brow ; 
I  care  not,  though  a  woman's  love 

Should  tempt  thee  to  forget  thy  vow. 
For  thou  to  me,  like  all  things  here, 

Hast  gleams  of  Eden  in  thy  face, 
And  somewhere  in  thy  brooding  heart 

There  must  be  still  a  sunny  place. 

I  find  it  in  the  few  bright  hours 

That  warmly  bear  the  Indian's  name, 
And  oft-times  tremble  through  thy  gloom, 

Like  love-light  o'er  the  brow  of  shame. 
Thy  fallen  leaves  and  withered  boughs 

Forget  to  rustle  and  to  sigh, 
And  folded  in  a  soft  embrace, 

Seem  grateful  thus  to  dream  and  die. 

To  me  these  parting  looks  of  thine 

Seem  like  diviner  rays  that  come 
To  light  the  dying  hours  of  those 

Whose  weary  feet  are  almost  home ; 
Whose  furrowed  brows  and  silver  hair 

Speak  of  life's  spring  and  summer  past, — 
Of  golden  fruit  and  garnered  grain, 

And  its  November  time  at  last. 

0 !  if  upon  my  path  must  rest 

My  birth-month's  rain  and  gloom  and  chill, 
If  dreary  days  and  starless  nights 

Are  waiting  for  my  footsteps  still,— 

59 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

I  ask  that,  in  my  parting  hours, 
The  rays  of  faith  and  hope  divine 

May  come,  like  Indian  Summer's  glow, 
To  warm  and  cheer  this  heart  of  mine. 

Then  while  my  eyes  will  fondly  rest 

On  this  dear  world  which  God  hath  made 
So  full  of  hopes,  so  full  of  loves, 

So  warm  with  sun,  so  cool  with  shade— 
Yet  will  they  greet  the  spirit-face 

Of  one,  my  dearest,  gone  before, 
Who  waits  for  her  November  child, 

To  fold  her  to  her  heart  once  more. 


POEM 

Read  at  the  tenth  anniversary  of  the  founding  of  the  Buffalo  Fine  Arts 
Academy,  December  23,  1872. 

TREAD  lightly  with  unsandaled  feet, 

The  place  is  hallowed  here, 
We  come  to  consecrate  our  child 

In  its  decennial  year. 
This  hour  hath  breathings  of  its  own, 

They  come  from  every  clime 
Where  stone  or  canvass  had  portrayed 

The  tender  or  sublime. 

Our  Priestess,  Art,  is  standing  here 

With  robes  as  pure  and  white 
As  when  we  brought  our  artist  child, 

Ten  years  ago  to-night. 

60 


MATILDA  H.  STUART 

Baptismal  vows  were  uttered  then, 

And  sponsors  gave  the  name, 
And  from  the  altar  of  our  hearts, 

The  fragrant  incense  came. 

And  now  the  priestess  gently  smiles 

"  And  through  her  lips  of  air," 
She  breathes  them  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

Her  blessing  and  her  prayer. 
Her  blessing  on  those  kindly  hands 

That  through  the  darkest  hours 
Wove  garments  for  the  trembling  child, 

And  crowned  its  brow  with  flowers. 

A  prayer  that  still  their  faith  and  hope 

Will  keep  them  weaving  on, 
Till  it  can  stand  in  broidered  hems, 

Its  robe  of  triumph  done ; 
Till  it  can  yield  to  faithful  hearts 

The  joy  they  thus  have  given, 
By  tinging  every  form  of  earth 

With  softer  hues  from  heaven. 

0 !  Mystic  Art,  in  thee  doth  blend 

The  earth-born  and  Divine. 
We  know  not  whence,  or  what  thy  power, 

Yet  worship  at  thy  shrine. 
We  clothe  thee  in  a  woman's  form ; 

We  crown  thee  with  her  name ; 
And  though  the  ages  knew  not  why, 

They  called  and  knelt  the  same. 

61 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Till  from  Judea's  vine-clad  hills 

This  heavenly  answer  stole, 
"From  woman  must  be  born  to  man 

The  Saviour  of  the  soul." 
Prophetic  thought  had  thus  enshrined 

The  Mary  of  our  race ; 
And  moulded  its  divinest  dreams 

In  woman's  form  and  face. 

Then  tread  we  with  unsandaled  feet,— 

This  time  is  holy  now ; 
For  see,  the  starry  East  grows  bright, 

The  herald  angels  bow. 
The  Christmas  anthem  for  our  world 

Is  trembling  in  the  air. 
0 !  may  it  steal  in  every  soul, 

And  find  an  answer  there. 


THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING 

1834  — Tljie  Crown  of  Myrtle. 

I  BEAR  a  message  here  to-night, 

From  home,  from  hope,  from  youth, 
And  I  am  laden  with  the  breath 

Of  tenderness  and  truth. 
My  leaves  and  stems  of  fadeless  green 

Are  fresh  with  memories  now, 
And  I  can  feel  them  softly  press 

Upon  a  youthful  brow ; 


MATILDA  H.  STUART 

While  fifty  years,  their  lights  and  shades, 

Have  sailed  a  mystic  way, 
And  in  their  place  Love's  early  hope 

Is  blushing  in  the  day  — 
As  bride  and  bridegroom's  lips  repeat 

Those  "sweetly  solemn  words" 
That  must  forever  stir  or  break 

The  spirit's  finest  chords. 
And  household  forms  press  fondly  near 

With  blended  smiles  and  tears, 
And  breathe  into  that  altar  hour 

The  garnered  love  of  years. 
And  o'er  them  all  are  viewless  ones 

That  bend  their  wings  to  bear 
Love's  holy  vow,  its  parting  words, 

Its  blessing  and  its  prayer. 

1859— The  Silver  Crown. 

A  SILVER  hue  is  on  my  leaves, 

A  tender  touch  of  time; 
I  do  not  sigh  for  early  glow 

Nor  for  a  brighter  clime. 
I  only  know  the  green  has  changed, 

I  feel  its  freshness  gone ; 
And  yet  my  message  here  to-night 

Hath  sweetness  in  its  tone. 
For  youth  can  never  bind  our  joys 

Within  its  fleeting  hours, 
Nor  can  it  rob  our  shaded  time 

Of  fragrance  or  of  flowers. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

We  lay  one  hope  away  to  find 

Another  in  its  room ; 
We  love,  we  lose,  and  yet  we  keep 

Some  brightness  and  some  bloom. 
And  so  my  silver  leaves  and  stems 

Have  language  all  their  own ; 
They  whisper  to  the  "bride  of  years  " 

That  earliest  dreams  have  flown ; 
And  yet  the  bridegroom  at  her  side 

Is  nearer,  dearer,  now, 
Than  when  she  wore  the  "myrtle  crown" 

Upon  her  youthful  brow. 
For  both  have  seen  young  faces  come 

To  cheer  their  heart  and  hearth, 
And  both  have  heard  young  voices  call 

The  sweetest  names  on  earth ; 
And  both  together  they  have  shared 

Their  dear  ones'  hopes  and  fears, 
And  felt  love's  arms  draw  closer  still 

Through  all  the  changeful  years ; 
While  o'er  their  homes  were  viewless  ones, 

With  bended  wings,  to  bear 
A  father's  deep  and  tender  thoughts, 

A  mother's  earnest  prayer. 

1884— The  Golden  Crown. 

ANOTHER  tinge  is  on  the  leaves 
Our  bride  and  bridegroom  wear ; 

The  green  is  now  within  their  hearts, 
The  silver  on  their  hair. 

64 


MATILDA   H.    STUART 

From  sunset  hours,  from  garnered  grain, 

Their  golden  hue  was  caught, 
And  every  leaf  and  every  stem 

Is  stirred  by  holiest  thought. 
For  "fifty  years"  — though  silent  guests  — 

Have  still  a  magic  power; 
They  breathe  on  ea,ch,  they  breathe  on  all ; 

They  sanctify  the  hour. 
We  stand  with  bridegroom  and  with  bride, 

And  with  this  household  band ; 
We  feel  the  glow  that  o'er  them  falls, 

We  touch  each  welcome  hand ; 
And  from  our  hearts  and  from  our  lips, 

Corne  words  of  love  and  cheer, 
To  bless  the  past,  and  crown  with  hope 

This  golden  wedding  year. 
And  o'er  us  still  are  viewless  ones 

Who  bend  their  wings  to  bear 
The  love  of  earth  and  love  of  heaven 

In  blessing  and  in  prayer. 


65 


POETS   AND    POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
ANSON   G.  CHESTER 

THE  TAPESTRY  WEAVERS 

I 

Let  us  take  to  our  hea.rts  a  lesson — no  lesson  can 

braver  be — 
From  the  ways  of  the  tapestry  weavers  on  the 

other  side  of  the  sea. 
Above  their  heads  the  pattern  hangs,  they  study  it 

with  care, 
The  while  their  fingers  deftly  move,  their  eyes  are 

fastened  there. 
They  tell  this  curious  thing  besides  of  the  patient 

plodding  weaver : 
He  works  on  the  wrong  side  evermore,  but  works 

for  the  right  side  ever. 
It  is  only  when  the  weaving  stops,  and  the  web 

is  loosed  and  turned, 
That  he  sees  his  real  handiwork,  that  his  marvelous 

skill  is  learned. 
Ah,  the  sight  of  its  delicate  beauty,  how  it  pays 

him  for  all  his  cost ! 
No  rarer,  daintier  work  than  his  was  ever  done 

by  the  frost. 
Then  the  master  bringeth  him  golden  hire,  and 

giveth  him  praise  as  well, 
And  how  happy  the  heart  of  the  weaver  is,  no 

tongue  but  his  own  can  tell. 

66 


ANSON    G.    CHESTER 

ii 

The  years  of  man  are  the  looms  of  God,  let  down 

from  the  place  of  the  sun, 
Wherein  we  are  weaving  ever,  till  the  mystic  web 

is  done. 
Weaving  blindly,  but   weaving   surely,  each  for 

himself  his  fate — 
We  may  not  see  how  the  right  side  looks,  we  can 

only  weave  and  wait. 
But  looking  above  for  the  pattern,  no  wearver  hath 

need  to  fear, 
Only  let  him  look  clear  into  Heaven,  the  Perfect 

Pattern  is  there. 
If  he  keeps  the  face  of  THE  SAVIOUR  forever  and 

always  in  sight 
His  toil  shall  be  sweeter  than  honey,  his  weaving 

is  sure  to  be  right. 
And  when  the  work  is  ended,  and  the  web  is  turned 

and  showm, 
He  shall  hear  the  voice  of  The  Master,  it  shall  say 

unto  him,  " Well  done!" 
And  the  white-winged  angels  of  Heaven,  to  bear 

him  thence,  shall  come  down ; 
And  God  shall  give  him  gold  for  his  hire— not  coin, 

but  a  glowing  crown ! 


67 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

SOMETIME 

0,  THE  glorious,  golden  Sometime  of  our  dreams, 

and  hopes,  and  prayers  — 
What  a  rosy  hue  invests  it,  what  a  smile  of  peace 

it  wears ! 
It  is  stored  with  balms  and  odors,  it  is  full  of  song 

and  shine, 
It  shall  gladden  us  like  music,  it  shall  comfort  us 

like  wine. 

0,  the  happy,  happy  Sometime   that  is   coming 

with  the  years! 
It  shall  ease  our  hearts  of  trouble,  it  shall  keep  our 

eyes  from  tears ; 
There  will  be  no  place  for  sorrow,  there  will  be  no 

time  to  sigh, 
In  the  shining,  songful  Sometime  that  is  coming 

by  and  by. 

In  the  rosy, radiant  Sometime  there  will  be  a  won 
drous  rest  — 

We  shall  lie  and  drink  in  gladness,  as  an  infant 
sucks  the  breast ; 

No  more  the  heart  shall  be  disturbed  by  any  woe 
or  wile, 

The  earth  shall  wear  a  heavenlier  look,  the  heav 
ens  themselves  shall  smile. 

Hope  will  fruit  upon  its  branches  as  the  orange 

rounds  and  glows ; 
There  will  be  no  strife  and  tumult,  only  concord 

and  repose ; 

68 


ANSON  G.  CHESTER 

Every  joy  will  be  discarded  that  another  may  not 

share, 
And  the  ills  of  life  will  soften  into  something  sweet 

a,nd  fair. 

In  the  gracious,  golden  Sometime  we  shall  love 

and  never  tire  — 
Keep  the  sweet  emotion  glowing,  as  the  vestal 

kept  the  fire ; 
There  will  be  a  sturdier  trusting  and  a  sympathy 

sublime  — 
The  heart  shall  be  in  league  with  peace  and  peace 

in  league  with  time. 

We  shall  lay  aside  our  burdens,  we  shall  be  dis 
robed  of  care, 

Cease  our  stifling  low-land  living,  rise  and  breathe 
the  mountain  air ; 

We  shall  feel  ourselves  uplifted  over  meanness, 
spite  and  wrong— 

Firmly  then  will  throb  our  pulses  and  our  heart 
beats  will  be  strong. 

In  the  braver,  better  Sometime  life  will  broaden 

and  expand, 
Every  impulse  will  be  noble,  every  purpose  will  be 

grand, 
Speech  shall  put  on  loftier  meanings,  thought  to 

higher  plains  ascend, 
And  the  action  prove  the  motive  and  the  motive 

show  the  end. 

69 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

We  shall  dream,  but  we  shall  labor;    we   shall 

labor,  but  shall  sing, 
As  the  skylark  pipes  its  carols  while  it  plies  its 

patient  wing ; 
We  shall  work  with  eager  fingers,  we  shall  run 

with  willing  feet, 
And  the  rest  that  crowns  our  striving  will   be 

something  heavenly  sweet. 

There  will  be  a  sense  of  freedom  that  will  make 

our  pulses  leap, 
And  a  sweeter  sense  of  safety,  that  will  hush  our 

hearts  to  sleep ; 
All  our  doubts  will  leave  us  ever,  all  our  fears  will 

be  at  rest  — 
Life  will  then  be  less  like  being  than  like  being 

always  blest! 

0,  my  brother  in  the  struggle,  0,  my  comrade  in 
the  strife ! 

Keep  thy  courage  and  thy  patience,  fill  thy  sta 
tion,  live  thy  life ; 

Twine  thy  hopes  about  the  Sometime,  trust  it 
ever,  hold  it  fast  — 

Though  it  tarry,  wait  thou  for  it;  it  will  surely 
come  at  last ! 


70 


ANSON  G.  CHESTER 

A    LOVE    SONG 

SHE  who  sleeps  upon  my  heart 

Was  the  first  to  win  it ; 
She  who  dreams  upon  my  breast 

Ever  reigns  within  it ; 
She  who  kisses  oft  my  lips 

Wakes  their  warmest  blessing ; 
She  who  rests  within  mine  arms 

Feels  their  closest  pressing. 

Other  days  than  these  shall  come, 

Days  that  may  be  dreary ; 
Other  hours  shall  greet  us  yet, 

Hours  that  may  be  weary ; 
Still  that  heart  shall  be  my  home, 

Still  that  breast  my  pillow ; 
Still  those  lips  meet  thine  as  oft 

Billow  meeteth  billow. 

Sleep,  then,  on  my  happy  heart, 

Since  thy  love  hath  won  it— 
Dream,  then,  on  my  loyal  breast — 

None  but  thou  hast  done  it ; 
And  when  age  our  bloom  shall  change 

With  its  wintry  weather, 
May  we  in  the  self-same  grave, 

Sleep  and  dream  together. 


71 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

AT    NIAGARA 

IN  the  Maytime,  at  Niagara, 
As  a  Sabbath  morning  broke, 

Full  of  glory,  peace  and  beauty, 
From  his  dreams  the  sleeper  woke. 

All  was  quiet,  save  the  thunder 
That  forever  there  prevails  — 

That,  throughout  the  gathering  ages, 
Never  pauses,  never  fails. 

But  the  thunder  of  the  torrent 

Of  a  sudden  died  away, 
Just  as  if  a  spell  of  silence 

On  the  rampant  waters  lay. 

For  a  robin,  at  the  casement,  trilled 
Its  carols  sweet  and  strong, 

And  he  heard  the  roar  no  longer  — 
It  was  vanquished  by  the  song ! 

On  thine  ear  the  roar  and  tumult 
Of  the  noisy  world  must  fall, 

But  a  little  song  of  love  and  trust 
Will  overcome  it  all. 


LIGHTS    GONE    OUT 

HIGH  on  a  bold  and  overhanging  cliff 

That  mocks   the   sea   and   frowns   upon    the 

sands — 
A  ghostly  presence  in  a  lonely  place— 

The  crumbling  lighthouse  stands. 

72 


ANSON  G.  CHESTER 

No  hand  swings  back  the  battered  oaken  door, 
No  footfall  sounds  upon  the  winding  stair, 

But  for  the  swallows,  not  a  sign  of  life 
Invests  it  anywhere. 

And,  as  the  darkness  falls,  its  lamp  no  more 

Vies  with  the  stars  to  cheer  the  gloomy  main, 
And  guide  the  eager  vessel  as  she  hastes 
Back  to  the  port  again. 

So  from  a  life  that  once  was  wondrous  bright  — 
Like  the  Italian  heavens,  unceasing  fair  — 

The  light  that  blessed  it  has  forever  fled 
And  all  is  darkness  there. 

The  rayless  beacon  may  be  trimmed  again 
And  burn  as  brightly  as  it  burned  before; 

But  who  shall  ever  to  the  dark,  dark  life 
The  olden  flame  restore. 


HYMN 

For  the  Dedication  of  New  Forest  Lawn,  September  26, 1866. 

THESE  quiet  acres,  with  this  solemn  grove, 

These  slopes,  where  many  a  blossom  lifts  its 

head, 

These  nooks,  where  pipes  the  thrush  and  moans 
the  dove — 

We  give  them  to  the  dead. 

73 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Here  shall  respose  the  matron  and  the  maid, 

The  infant  and  the  father,  side  by  side, 
And  here  in  holy  faith  and  trust  be  laid 
The  grandsire  and  the  bride. 

Here  shall  the  heart  its  choicest  incense  burn, 
And    here    the    fairest,    rarest   flowers    shall 

bloom — 

For  Memory  loves  to  twine  the  funeral  urn 
And  beautify  the  tomb. 

0,  when  in  such  a  heavenly  spot  as  this 

Our  wearied  bodies,  undisturbed,  may  lie, 
Death  holds  for  us  the  jeweled  cup  of  bliss 
And  it  is  good  to  die. 

In  thy  Great  Name  this  place  we  consecrate, 
0  God  triune — the  Father,  Spirit,  Word; 
Sweet  be  their  sleep  who  here  shall  calmly  wait 
The  summons  of  the  Lord ! 


RED    JACKET 

IT  is  half  an  age  since  he  passed  away, 
The  Chief  we  honored  that  autumn  day. 

The  day  was  bright,  but  what  of  the  deed? 
Ah !  that  depends  on  the  make  of  the  creed. 

It  is  well  that  his  bones  find  rest  at  last, 
But  what  of  the  wrongs  of  the  silent  past? 

74 


ANSON   G.   CHESTER 

To  judge  from  the  Law  brought  down  from  the 

Mount, 
It  will  need  much  more  to  square  the  account. 

He  spoke  for  his  people,  great  and  small, 
But  our  ears  were  closed  to  his  plaintive  call. 

He  sued  for  justice,  he  sought  for  right, 
But  died,  as  he  lived,  without  the  sight. 

We  gave  no  heed  to  his  living  tones, 
But  what  of  that?  —  we  buried  his  bones ! 

He  pled  for  his  own  and  we  heard  him  not, 
But  see  the  monument  he  has  got ! 

The  story  returns  from  the  ages  gone : 

He  asked  for  bread,  they  gave  him  a  stone! 

BUFFALO,  October  9,  1884. 


THE    FIELD    DAISY 

I  REACHED  my  hand  for  a  fallen  star, 

But  only  a  daisy  found  it  — 
A  little  tawny  and  fretted  disk 

With  a  snowy  halo  round  it. 

It  seemed  to  have  dropped  from  the  spangled  sky 

A  heavenly  thing  made  lowly ; 
I  gazed  and  mused  till  the  simple  flower 

Grew  strangely  sweet  and  holy. 

75 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

If  things  so  humble  and  things  so  high 
May  blend  in  the  thoughts  of  the  spirit, 

Then  angel  graces  may  live  and  thrive 
In  the  midst  of  man's  demerit. 

Ah,  we  are  the  fallen  stars  of  God ! 

But,  firm  in  the  way  of  duty, 
Our  lives  will  carry  a  heavenly  glow 

And  the  bloom  of  a  heavenly  beauty. 


WELCOME,    TWENTY-FIRST  ! 

FROM  the  fields  of  strife  and  slaughter, 
Fields  where  blood  was  poured  like  water, 
Where,  in  swaths,  the  rebel  foemen 
Fell  before  our  northern  yeomen ; 
From  a  war  most  just  and  holy, 
Though  its  gold  is  coined  but  slowly  — 
Welcome,  Twenty-first ! 

With  your  frames  all  bruised  and  battered; 
With  your  ranks  all  thin  and  shattered ; 
With  your  torn  and  shot-scarred  banner, 
Witness  to  your  dauntless  manner ; 
With  a  name  and  fame  and  glory 
Which  shall  live  in  song  and  story  — 
Welcome,  Twenty -first. 

To  the  friends  who  smile  to  meet  you ; 
To  the  homes  which  wait  to  greet  you ; 

76 


ANSON   G.    CHESTER 

To  the  arms  which  long  to  press  you ; 
To  the  hearts  which  love  and  bless  you ; 
To  your  fathers,  children,  brothers, 
To  your  sweethearts,  wives  and  mothers  — 
Welcome,  Twenty-first. 

Tears  are  moistening  many  faces 
As  they  see  the  vacant  places 
In  the  worn  and  wasted  column — 
Ah !  but  war  is  sad  and  solemn ! 
Yet  why  weep  for  those  who  perished 
In  the  cause  they  loved  and  cherished? 
They  who  choose  the  stoutest  burden s 
Win  the  best  and  proudest  guerdons. 

From  a  war  most  just  and  holy, 
Though  its  gold  is  coined  but  slowly ; 
With  your  frames  all  bruised  and  battered, 
And  your  ranks  all  thin  and  shattered ; 
To  the  friends  who  smile  to  meet  you, 
And  the  homes  which  wait  to  greet  you— 
Welcome,  Twenty-first. 


77 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


J.  HAREISON  MILLS 

THE    FLAG    OF    THE    TWENTY-FIRST 

An  Extract. 

BUT  oh !  you  can't  know  then,  how  dear  a  thing  a 

tattered  color  can  be 
To  men  who  have  suffered,  and  fought,  and  bled, 

as  under  this  one,  did  we. 


Perhaps  you'll  remember,  four  years  gone  by, 

In  that  wonderful  spring-time  of  Sixty-one, 
While  the  country  was  ringing  with  the  cry 

That  answered  old  Sumter's  larum  gun, 
That  — wait;  I'll  be  precise  to  a  day, 

'Twas,  I  think,  just  about  the  fourth  of  May, 
And  Sumter  fell  on  the  thirteenth  day 

Of  the  month  before — yes;  and  that  was  the 

way 
We  came  to  be  standing,  that  day  at  noon,  — 

A  raw,  unarmed  and  undisciplined  crew, 
But  flushed  with  high  purpose,— upon  the  Square 

Down  there,  in  front  of  the  Central  School. 

'Twas  a  silken  wonder ;  all  blue  and  gold 

Where  a  bit  of  starry  sky  was  set, 
And  a  broken  rainbow's  red  and  white 

Marked  the  promise  ne'er  broken  yet. 
And  proudly  upon  its  topmost  height, 

78 


J.    HARRISON   MILLS 

Poised  above  rainbow  and  sky  and  star. 
With  his  wings  and  head  outstretched  for  flight, 

As  to  meet  the  coming  foe,  afar, 
Was  a  golden  image  of  Freedom's  bird, 

The  bird  with  the  flaming  eye, 
Whose  wing  o'ershadows  the  battle-field 

And  whose  song  is  a  battle-cry. 

White  as  a  fairy's,  the  hands  that  made 
That  flag ;  while,  perchance,  there  were  beauti 
ful  eyes 
Drooping,  to  hide  tears  that  wouldn't  be  stayed, 

Rough  hands,  and  brown,  received  the  prize, 
And  proudly  we  bore  it,  that  parting  day, 

A  gift  from  the  girls  of  the  Central  School 
To  the  boys  who  were  marching  away 
On  that  beautiful  day  in  May. 

Two  years  after  that,  — to  a  day,  almost, 
Buffalo  welcomed  back  her  boys  — 

Two  or  three  handfuls  of  the  host 
That  had  marched  so  proudly  away 
On  that  beautiful  day  in  May. 

Well,  up  Main  Street,  'twas  a  beautiful  sight 

To  us  hardened  old  fellows  to  see, 
Look  up  or  look  down,  to  the  left  or  the  right, 

Every  place  jammed  as  tight  as  could  be 
With  welcoming  faces ;  and  was  there  a  place 
That  would  not  admit  of  another  small  face, 

There  a  hand  waved  in  welcoming  glee. 

79 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  if  you  should  ask  me  (the  truth  to  say) 
What  was  the  saddest,  to  me,  that  day, 

Of  all  the  sights  that  might  have  been  seen 
In  the  little  column  that  marched  up  Main, 

Whether  the  thin  and  wasted  ranks, 
Or  the  two  platoons  of  crippled  men, 

Or  the  many  faces  you  couldn't  see 
And  knew  you  would  never  see  again, 

Or  the  hardened  and  weary,  yet  hopeful  look, 
In  others  that  went  away,  young  and  fair, 

As  though  they  were  trying,  but  couldn't  forget 
The  awful  touch  of  the  battle  air, 

Or  the  weeping  ones,  who  looked  in  vain 
And  knew  it,  yet  looked,  and  looked  again 
Along  the  lines  where  they  might  not  see 

Some  dear  one  who  marched  away 

On  that  beautiful  day  in  May 
Why  friend — this  is  what  I  should  say :  — 

These  were  all  sad  enough  sights  to  see, 

But  the  saddest— yet  proudest  of  all— to  me, 

Was  that  bit  of  discolored  red  and  blue, 

And  grayish  white,  with  a  dingy  hue, 

Blurred  too  with  spots  of  a  darker  stain  — 

Tell-tale  spots— where  its  folds  have  lain 

Sometimes,  for  a  moment,  where  mingled  blood 

Of  friends  and  of  foemen  fed  the  sod ; 

With  its  stars  and  its  tassels  of  tarnished  gold, 

And  ragged  rendings  in  every  fold, 

And  its  tattered  fringes,  about  half  way 

Where  its  edge  was  once  — on  that  tearful  day, 


J.    HARRISON   MILLS 

That  day  two  years  ago  in  May, 

When  we  all  so  proudly  marched  away  — 

Why,  that  was  the  saddest  sight,  I  say. 

And  when  we  halted,  upon  the  Square 

In  front  of  the  Arsenal,  and  there 

Gave  it  back  to  the  hands  that  on  that  day 

Placed  it  in  ours  when  we  marched  away ; 

Why,  that  remnant  of  silk,  so  ragged  and  old, 

Was  dearer  to  us  than  moneys  of  gold, 

And  a 'kingdom  couldn't  have  bought  a  fold, 

Nay !  a  tatter !  a  thread !  had  been  wealth  untold. 

Yes,  sooner  than  sever  one  sacred  shred, 

Not  a  man  in  that  line  but  had  willingly  bled. 

For  its  staff  never  felt  a  foeman's  hand ; 

And  many  a  grave  we  know 
Scattered  across  that  sunny  land 

Where  its  bearers  sleep  so  low, — 

Since,  a  blood-red  crest  on  a  billow's  breast, 
Where  the  tide  of  death  ran  strong, 

It  swept  the  cloud,  with  a  bearing  proud, 
Keeping  time  to  the  battle  song  — 

And  their  fitting  knell  was  the  battle  bell 
That  boomed  with  a  tongue  of  flame 

And  the  Minie  hail,  with  its  fearful  wail 
Scattering  its  track  with  slain. 

But  on !  still  on !   'till  the  goal  was  won, 

Bending  to  rise  again, 
While  swiftly  and  true  our  bullets  flew, 

That  eagle  o'er-swept  the  plain  — 

81 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Till  one  dark  day  when  the  tide  set  back, 

Leaving  ten  thousand  slain, 
All  at  once  he  was  gone,  and  by  sunset  or  dawn 

He  never  came  back  again. 

And  whether  he  still  went  sailing  on, 

Scorning  the  coming  foe, 
Or  whether  he  fell ;  I  cannot  tell, 

But  he  never  came  back,  I  know ; 

And  his  image  yet,  is  firmly  set 

In  hearts  that  have  turned  to  clay. 
And  there  it  shall  be  till  the  reveille 
Arouses  the  sleepers,  by  river  and  sea, 
On  that  last  great  muster  day. 


BOOTHS 

1866. 

SMILING,  —wiling,  -—brain  beguiling,  — 

Pleading  sweetly,— reconciling 
All  our  protests  to  complying,  while  our  pockets 
lighter  grow ; 

Beaming, — gleaming,  — never  seeming 

Half  so  fair  as  when  they're  scheming, 
Half  unfairly,  to  despoil  us  of  a  double  X  or  so ; 

Oh!  most  blissful  'tis,  of  blisses, 

Thus,  surrounded  by  the  misses, 
Sweetly  to  disgorge  the  "pieces,"  as  from  hand  to 
hand  you  go ! 

82 


J.    HARRISON   MILLS 

"  Buy  a  doll,  sir?  — Have  a  shawl,  sir? 
Please  do  walk  up  to  our  stall,  sir." 
And  so  "lamb-like"    to   the   slaughter,  ga.mble- 

ing  you're  sure  to  go, 

Winning  smiles  worth  more  than  "greenbacks" 
as  you  ramble  through  the  show. 

Ah !  but  past  me,  grim  and  ghastly, 
Glide  the  shades  that  once  compassed  me, 
When  the  fate  of  Battle  cast  me  'mid  the  dying 

and  the  dead ; 

Where  the  gleanings  all  were  lying, 
Husk  and  kernel,  dead  and  dying 
In  the  wards  of  pain  and  sighing,  sinking  heart 

and  drooping  head ; 
In  the  line  of  cots,  unbroken, 
Lying  there  a  sign  and  token 
Of  the  horrors  never  spoken,  of  the  field  with  car 
nage  red ; 
Lips  that  moan  in  every  tone  in  which  racked 

Nature's  prayers  are  said, 
Eyes  that,  seeming  fixed,  are  dreaming  some  sad 

vision  of  the  dead. 

"Buy?  of  course!  who  wouldn't  buy,  Miss; 
Don't  each  dollar  ease  a  sigh,  Miss ; 
Lighten  up  some  grateful  eye,  Miss,  where  your 

bounty  shall  be  shed  ? 
And  I  know  that  His  own  blessing  rests  upon 

you,  Who  once  said 

To  a  needy,  suffering  mortal,  'Friend,  arise:  take 
up  thy  bed.'" 

83 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


JEROME  B.  STILLSON 

AGNES 

WHEN  the  bleak  autumnal  weather,  moaning  over 
moor  and  heather, 

Reveled  with  the  giant  shadows  where  the  barren 
mountains  loom, 

When  the  winds  were  weirdly  raving,  and   the 
forests  grimly  wraving 

All  the  night's  dim  terrors  braving,  forth  I  wan 
dered,  in  the  gloom,  — 

Wandered  through  the  whispering  darkness  of  the 
dismal  midnight  gloom, 

To  a  mossed  and  lonesome  tomb. 

All   around  was   dead    and   lonely;  —  wind,   and 

cloud  and  darkness  only ; 
And  the  coldly-slumbering  landscape  wore  a  chill 

and  ghostly  air ; 
And  a  mournful  thrill  came  o'er  me,  gazing  on  the 

mound  before  me, 
And  a  voice  seemed  to  implore  me  —  "Linger  not 

in  sadness  there,  — 
Linger  not  in  hopeless  longing ;  naught  but  ashes 

slumber  there, 

Neither  beautiful  nor  fair. 

"Gone  the  dark  eye's  heavenly  luster,  gone  the 

light  that  used  to  cluster 
Round   her   brows'    transparent   whiteness  in  a 

spiritual  flood ;  — 

84 


JEROME   B.    STILLSON 

Never  more  beside  the  river,  where  the  glancing 

moonbeams  shiver, 
Shall  her  sweet  lips  softly  quiver,  murmuring  of 

Faith  and  God. 
Thou  art  crouching  in  the  midnight  by  a  damp 

and  sunken  clod, — 

By  a  nameless  burial  sod !  " 

Then  the  voice  my  spirit  haunting  with  its  melan 
choly  chanting, 

Sounded  all  the  depths  of  memory,  rent  the  shroud 
of  buried  years, 

While  I  stood  in  silence  weeping,  o'er  the  dead  my 
vigil  keeping, 

O'er  a  loved  one  softly  sleeping,  undisturbed  by 
wrongs  or  fears ; 

And  a  flood  of  disappointment,  and  a  cloud  of 
bitter  fears 

Fell  upon  the  mound  in  tears. 

0,  that  memory  undying!    0,  that  voice,  that, 

sadly  sighing, 
Surged  its  tale  of  desolation  through  my  bosom 

like  a  wave! 
Still  its  gloom  my  heart  o'ershadows,  and  I  look 

out  on  the  meadows, 
On  the  cold  and  dreary  meadows  which  the  snows 

of  winter  pave, 
And,  so  gazing,  0,  lost  Agnes,  on  thy  white  and 

distant  grave, 

Slumber  there  is  all  I  crave. 

85 


POETS   AND   POETKY   OF   BUFFALO 


CHARLES  D.  MARSHALL 

IN    MEMORY    OF  THE  LATE  LIEUTENANT  CHARLES  S. 
FARNHAM 

NOT  in  the  lowering  smoke, 

Robing  the  battlefield, 
Not  by  a  saber  stroke 
Were  life's  strong  fetters  broke 

And  Heaven's  last  seal  unsealed. 

No  glory-shrouded  death, 

Bright  with  Fame's  magic  smiles 

And  crowned  with  Honor's  wreath 

On  Victory's  bloody  heath, 

His  pain-wrapped  thought  beguiles. 

But  skeletoned  and  grim, 

Death  came  without  disguise, 

The  far-off  battle-hymn 

Lighting  the  eye  grown  dim  — 
Floated  in  distant  skies. 

And  on  a  bed  of  pain, 

Stricken,  yet  not  cast  down, 

He  struggled— but  in  vain. 

Our  sorrow  is  his  gain, 

Our  loss  gives  him  a  crown. 


8G 


CHARLES   D.   MARSHALL 

THE    PARTING 

LET  not  another's  rude  kiss  stain 

The  lips  that  I  caress ; 
Let  not  another's  touch  profane 

The  hand  I  fondly  press. 

But  let  this  last  kiss  linger  long, 
And  keep  this  white  hand  free, 

And  like  a  joyous  morning  song 
My  sunny  life  shall  be. 

If  clouded  moments  intervene 
Ere  we  again  shall  kiss, 

The  clouds  will  catch  a  silvery  sheen 
From  this  remembered  bliss. 

Then  let  no  other  rude  touch  stain 

Those  lips  that  I  caress, 
And  let  no  other  clasp  profane 

This  hand  I  fondly  press. 


THE   POET'S  THOUGHT 

THE  poet  roams  through  flower-strewn  meads 

And  plucks  a  bright  bouquet ; 
He  binds  it  with  a  thread  of  thought ; 

It  lives  its  little  day. 

But  soon  the  chilling  breath  of  Time 

Shall  strew  the  leaves  around ; 
The  cold  world  with  its  iron  heel 

Will  crush  them  in  the  ground. 

87 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

But  let  this  truth  his  sad  heart  cheer 
And  soothe  in  hour  of  need ; 

Beneath  the  calyx  of  each  flower- 
Lies  hidden  precious  seed, 

Which  borne  upon  the  changing  wind, 

Wafted  by  every  air, 
Will  find  rich  soil  in  some  fond  heart, 

Take  root,  and  blossom  there. 


KIND  WORDS 

SPARKLING,  through  the  foam-heads 

That  tip  the  ocean  waves, 
Chasing  the  rolling  billows, 

Searching  their  deep,  dark  graves, 

Down  come  the  silvery  moonbeams, 

Silently  into  the  night, 
Shedding  afar,  through  a  dreaming  world, 

A  wavy,  tremulous  light. 

So,  dropping  from  some  loved  lips, 
Soothing  some  wave-worn  soul  — 

Gilding  the  troubled  waters 
That  ceaselessly  over  it  roll  — 

Sweetly  fall  words  of  kindness, 
To  those  who,  mourning,  grope. 

Lighting  eyes,  filled  to  blindness, 
With  rays  of  quiet  hope. 

88 


CHARLES   D.    MARSHALL 

STORM    CLOUDS 

QUIETLY,  quietly 
Rolls  the  deep  sea, 
Under  the  moonlight, 
Under  the  starlight, 

Lovingly,  lovingly. 

Grandly,  oh!  grandly 
Rolls  the  blue  sea  ; 
Rising  in  billows, 
Heaving  to  mountains, 
Tipped  by  the  moonlight, 
Decked  by  the  starlight; 
Grandly,  so  grandly 

Rolls  the  blue  sea. 

Solemnly,  solemnly 
Rolls  the  dark  sea ; 
Dimmed  is  the  moonlight, 
Dimmed  is  the  starlight, 
Shining  through  storm-clouds, 

Solemnly. 

Fearfully,  fearfully 
Leaps  the  wild  sea; 
Foaming — its  billows 
Breaking  in  foam-caps, 
Chasing  each  other, 
Dashing  together, 
Rolling  and  tumbling 

Fearfully ! 

89 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Gently,  oh!  gently 
Eolls  the  green  sea, 
Bearing  up  corpses, 
Floating  so  calmly 
Under  the  moonlight, 
Under  the  starlight, 

Gently,  so  gently ! 

Quietly,  quietly 
Rolls  the  deep  sea ; 
Sunken  the  corpses, 
Vanished  the  moonlight, 
Paling  the  starlight, 
While  the  bright  sunlight 
Steals  o'er  the  ocean 

Quietly. 


GLEN  IRIS 

WHERE  the  seven-hued  arch  spans  the  beautiful 

river, 

By  spray-shadowed  phantoms  upraised ; 
Where  the  waves  on  the  brink  of  the  precipice 

quiver, 

Shrink  backward,  affrighted,  amazed,— 
Delay  for  a  moment  the  mad  plunge  before  them, 
Then  leap   into    song  'neath   the   bow    bending 
o'er  them;  — 

90 


CHARLES   D.    MARSHALL 

There,  afar  from    the  clamor  of  town,  and  the 

shadow 

That  rests  under  smoke-tainted  skies, 
In  the  lap  of  green  hills,  mapped  with  forest  and 

meadow, 

Glen  Iris,  the  beautiful,  lies ; 

A  lawn,  a  cool  wood,  a  clear  lake  and  a  fountain, 
The   wild    stream  before,  and    behind,    the   low 
mountain. 

There  earliest  spring  gives  her  full  breast  to  nature, 
And  buds  break  in  bountiful  bloom ; 

The  trees  on  the  hills  crown  with  sweets  their 

full  stature 
And  load  the  moist  air  with  perfume; 

Like  a  maiden  new  risen  to  meet  her  adorning, 

The  valley  is  fresh  with  the  incense  of  morning. 

There  music  is  born  of  the  wind-shaken  willows 
That  fringe  the  lake's  margin  around ; 

It  floats  from  the  Genesee's  miniature  billows, 
And  rises,  low-voiced,  from  the  ground ; 

In  the  full  tide  of  life  all  the  fair  glen  rejoices, 

And    valley   and  stream  blend  their   rhythmical 
voices. 

Oh,  the  charm  of  the  spell  of  that  beautiful  valley ! 

Oh,  siren-like  song  of  its  Fall ! 
We  would  fain  in  life's  voyage  there  linger  and 
dally 

Amid  the  bright  scenes  of  its  thrall ; 

91 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

'Mid  carols  of  birds  and  rare  odors  of  flowers, 
Days  lapse  into  moments  and  moments  hold  hours. 

When  the  days  shall  be  told  and  the  moments  all 

reckoned 

That  life  has  held  bitter  or  sweet ; 
When   the    timorous   soul   to    the    unknown   is 

beckoned, 

And  faith  and  reality  meet, 

E'en  death  would  be  sweet  by  the  murmuring  river, 
And  rest  'neath  the  sign  of  the  Promise,  forever . 


92 


AMANDA  T.   JONES 
AMANDA   T.   JONES 

COMING  HOME 

A  SIX-YEAKS'  child,  I  climbed  the  gate 
All  round  the  world  to  see ; 

"  Oh,  why  does  mother  stay  so  late? 
Where  can  she,  can  she  be?" 

I  saw  the  pond  as  gray  as  lead, 

Blue  iris  near  the  brink, 
The  rough-railed  pasture,  sorrel-red, 

The  meadow,  clover-pink. 

I  saw  the  yellow  sands  where  lay 

My  periwinkles  brown, 
Silver  Cayuga  wind  away, 

And  purple  mists  fall  down. 

I  saw  the  flume,  the  waterfall, 
The  white  and  flying  foam, 

Yet  missed  the  dearest  sight  of  all,— 
My  mother  coming  home. 

It  surely,  surely  would  be  night ; 

The  lady  four-o'clocks 
Unwound  their  silky  ribbons  bright, 

Shook  out  their  party  frocks. 

The  miller-moth  went  high  and  higher, 
Went  round  and  round  about, 

The  sun's  broad  face  was  red  as  fire, 
He  was  so  tired  out. 

93 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

So  down  he  sank  behind  the  brush, — 

I  thought  he  dropped  a  spark, 
Right  after  such  a  crimson  blush 

Ran  kindling  through  the  dark. 

A  spark,  a  blush,  a  smoky  blaze 

Began  to  creep  and  turn, 
To  catch  and  cling,  — a  hundred  ways 

To  burn  and  burn  and  burn ! 

"Oh,  is  it  truly  fire?"  I  thought, 

"Or  people  of  the  air, 
With  mantles  from  the  sunset  caught 

And  fiery  floating  hair?  " 

My  heart  beat  hard  with  fancy  fright ; 

"Should  mother  come  that  way, 
And  should  they  snatch  her,  hold  her  tight, 

What  would  we,  would  we  say? 

"Their  shiny  cloaks,  how  far  they  blow ! 

They'll  wind  her  round  and  round. 
She'll  never  think,  she'll  never  know, 

She'll  never  hear  a  sound, 

"Not  even  should  we  call  and  call, 

They'll  take  her  up  on  high ; 
They'll  hide  her,  wrap  her,  burn  her  all 

'Way  through  the  burning  sky." 

Out  gushed  my  tears — the  silly  child ! 

Such  bitter  grief  I  had. 
First  thing  I  knew,  there  mother  smiled ! 

And  all  my  world  was  glad. 

94 


AMANDA   T.   JONES 

0,  mother,  mother!  thought  is  swift, 
But  who  would  count  the  hours 

Since  lightly  blew  that  snowy  drift, 
Right  in  among  the  flowers  ? 

Ah,  not  so  long  ago,  not  long, 

You  passed  the  lowly  gate, 
I  know  your  love  is  sweet  and  strong, 

Why  will  you  stay  so  late  ? 

What  use  to  me  the  gray  and  blue, 

The  rosy  and  the  white, 
The  silks  of  summer,  fair  of  hue  ?  — 

It  surely  will  be  night. 

You,  you  I  want,  I  call  your  name, 

All  round  the  world  I  see, 
So  whirled  away  in  holy  flame  — 

Where  can  you,  can  you  be? 

Hush,  foolish  one,  heart-struck  with  fear ! 

The  sorry  thought  let  go. 
You  look  so  far,  she  comes  so  near, 

Soft-smiling,  still  and  slow. 

Not  rushing  fires  that  skyward  fling, 
Though  wide  they  be  and  wild, 

Not  Life,  nor  Death,  nor  any  thing, 
Will  keep  her  from  her  child. 

Turn  round  and  face  the  heavenly  sight ; 

Spring  to  the  loving  breast ; 
Oh,  sweet  surprise !  Oh,  dear  delight ! 
All  kissed  away  to  rest ! 

95 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

THE  SOLDIER'S  MOTHER 
AWAKE,  little  daughter,  awake ! 

The  sad  moon  is  weaving  her  shroud ; 
The  pale,  drooping  lily-bells  quake ; 
The  river  is  sobbing  aloud. 

I  want  your  sweet  face  in  my  sight, 
While  I  open  my  room  to  the  night ; 
The  torn  clouds  are  flying,  the  lupine  is  sighing, 
The  whip-poor- wrill  wails  in  affright. 

There's  a  shadow  just  marked  on  the  floor  — 

Now  soaring  and  breaking  its  bond ; 
'Tis  the  woodbine,  perhaps,  by  the  door, 
Or  the  blooming  acacia  beyond. 
Oh,  pitiful  weakness  of  grief! 
Oh,  trouble,  of  troubles  the  chief ! 
When  shades  can  assail  us,  and  terrors  impale  us, 
At  sight  of  a  quivering  leaf. 

I  weep,  little  daughter,  I  wreep ; 

But  chide  me  not,  love,  for  I  heard, 
Three  times  in  the  depth  of  my  sleep, 
The  clang  of  a  terrible  word. 

"  Your  Harry  is  dying,"  it  cried  ; 
"Is  dying"  and  "dying,"  it  sighed; 
As  bells  that,  in  tolling,  set  echoes  to  rolling, 
Till  fainting  sound  ebbs  like  the  tide. 

Then  the  walls  of  my  room  fell  away ; 

My  eye  pierced  the  distance  afar, 
Where,  by  the  plowed  field  of  the  fray, 

The  camp-fire  shone  out  like  a  star. 

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AMANDA    T.   JONES 

And  southward,  unhindered,  I  fled, 
By  the  instinct  of  motherhood  led ; 
The  night-wind  was  blowing,  the  red  blood  was 
flowing, 

And  Harry  was  dying— was  dead ! 

I  dreamed,  little  daughter,  I  dreamed  — 

Look !  the  window  is  lit  by  a  face. 
It  is  not  ?    Well,  how  life-like  it  seemed ! 
Go,  draw  down  the  curtains  of  lace. 
It  may  be  'twas  only  a  flower ; 
For  fancy  has  wonderful  power. 
The  loud  wind  is  whirring — hark!  something  is 
stirring — 

'Tis  midnight— the  clock  knells  the  hour. 

The  horseman  had  ridden  all  night ; 

His  garments  were  spotted  with  gore ; 
His  foot  crushed  the  lily-bells  white  — 
He  entered  the  vine-covered  door. 
"Your  Harry  is  dying,"  he  said: 
The  mother  just  lifted  her  head, 
And  answered  un weeping,  like  one  who  is  sleeping, 
"Not  dying,  good  soldier,  but  dead!  " 

AT    FIRST 

IF  I  should  fall  asleep  one  day  — 

All  over-worn, 

And  should  my  spirit  from  the  clay 
Go  dreaming  out  the  Heavenward  way 

Or  thence  be  softly  borne, 
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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

I  pray  you,  angels,  do  not  first 

Assail  mine  ear 

With  that  blest  anthem  oft  rehearsed : 
"  Behold,  the  bonds  of  Death  are  burst ! "  — 

Lest  I  should  faint  with  fear. 

But  let  some  happy  bird  at  hand 

The  silence  break ! 
So  shall  I  dimly  understand 
That  dawn  has  touched  a  blossoming  land 

And  sigh  myself  awake ! 

From  that  deep  rest  emerging  so, 

To  lift  the  head 

And  see  the  bath-flower's  bell  of  snow, 
The  pink  arbutus  and  the  low 

Spring-beauty,  streaked  with  red, 

Will  all  suffice !    No  otherwhere 

Impelled  to  roam 

Till  some  blithe  wanderer,  passing  fair, 
Will  smiling  pause  —  of  me  aware  — 
And  murm  ur :    "  Welcome  Home ! ' ' 

So  sweetly  greeted,  I  shall  rise 

To  kiss  her  cheek ; 
Then  lightly  soar,  in  lovely  guise, 
As  one  familiar  with  the  skies 

Who  finds  and  need  not  seek. 


AMANDA   T.   JONES 

FOOD  SEEKERS 
I. 

A  WIDE-WINGED  butterfly 
Upon  the  white  flowers  of  a  bitter  weed 
Settled  to  satisfy  his  noon-day  need. 

Through  sunshine  far  and  high 
His  kindred  wavered,  but  he  took  no  heed ; 
Pretty  it  was  to  watch  his  dainty  greed. 

ii. 

A  wondrous  beetle  came  — 
All  emerald-green,  save  that  upon  his  back 
There  blazed  a  mimic  sun ;  and  in  his  track 

Lured  by  the  dazzling  flame, 
A  lace-wing  fluttered— purple,  gold  and  black. 
Of  pleasure  for  them  all  there  was  no  lack. 

in. 

Down  dropped  a  bird  that  flies 
Near  to  the  clouds,  yet  perches  for  his  seed, 
And  sings  and  sings  God's  little  choir  to  lead ! 

I  lifted  up  my  eyes ; 

"Dear  Lord,  Thy  fragile  creatures  richly  feed; 
Content  me,  also,  with  Thy  bitter  weed ! " 

From  The  Youth's  Companion. 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

AT    GLEN    IRIS 

THE  moon  came  up  that  eve,  full-orbed  and  fair  — 
That  sovereign  Cleopatra, — ruling  Night, 
And  dropping  ever  in  his  loving  sight 

Her  threaded  pearls  adown  the  wine-like  air : 
Half  undissolved  they  sank  through  shadows 

gray, 
Embroidered  Mo-no-sha-sha's  robe  of  spray, 

And  caught  in  Deh-ga-ya-soh's  silver  snare. 

All  night  we  heard  the  river-cataracts  pour : 

Their  ceaseless  timbrels  smote  the  ear  of  sleep ; 
Till  all  our  dreams,  like  waves  that  landward 
sweep, 

Were  wild  and  voluble  with  naiad-lore  : 

And  we  were  reft  of  rest,  and  seemed  to  be 
Kuhleborns  and  Undines,  dripping  with  the  sea, 

Or  knights  and  ladies  drenched  upon  the  shore. 

Surely  the  water-witches  tricked  us  well ! 

When  the  carved  cuckoo  made  the   morning 

hours 

Finish  their    rounds   with   song,  'mid   falling- 
showers, 
And  rain- weighed  rose-vines;    scarcely  might  we 

tell 

Whether  we  had  not  lost  our  souls  in  dreams 
Of  that  past  night,  and  were  but  sprites  of 

streams, 

Oreads  of  hills,  or  elfs  of  knoll  and  dell. 

100 


AMANDA   T.   JONES 

Upon  the  grass-fringed  lakelet,  fountain-fed 

With  cooling  rills,  just  drained  from  hillside 
wells, 

Where,  to  the  tinkle  of  sweet  water-bells, 
Aerial  jets  were  waltzing  overhead, 

By  sirens  lured,  how  daintily  we  rode ! 

Till,  drawn  too  near  their  crystalline  abode, 
What  showers  the  fickle  creatures  o'er  us  shed? 


SHIPWRECKED 

WE  two  waited  on  the  deck  — 

All  around  us  rolled  the  sea ; 
Helpless,  on  our  reeling  wreck, 

Silent,  wan,  and  worn  were  we. 
Where  the  little  boat  went  down, 

Where  the  sun  had  plunged  from  sight, 
Hope  and  light  alike  did  drown  — 
O'er  us,  dark  as  Fate,  was  night. 
Face  to  face  we  stood  alone, 

Dreary,  still,  and  sad  were  we; 
Smitten  by  that  wild  cyclone, 
All  around  us  beat  the  sea, 
Rose  the  sea,  rushed  the  sea, 
Roared  the  wrathful  sea ! 

Cloudy  shapes  like  hooded  ghouls, 
Flitted  past  our  shuddering  prow ; 

Death  was  reaching  for  our  souls, 
Chill  his  breath  upon  the  brow : 
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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Then,  oh  then  were  we  aware, 

Through  all  war,  below,  above, 
Of  a  face  sublimely  fair — 

Was  it  Death  unveiled,  or  Love  ? 
Heart  to  heart  we  stood  alone, 
Smiling  and  serene  were  we ; 
Tortured  by  that  wild  cyclone, 
All  around  us  strove  the  sea, 
Wailed  the  sea,  mourned  the  sea, 
Sobbed  the  toiling  sea. 

While  we  watched,  a  seething  tide 
O'er  our  sinking  vessel  crossed ; 
Out  among  the  waters  wide, 

Smiling  still,  we  two  were  tossed ; 
Tossed  and  drifted,  overcome 

In  a  crowd  of  surges  dread, 
Bruised  and  beaten,  blind  and  dumb, 
So  we  sank  among  the  dead. 
0  my  love,  and  mine  alone, 

Sweet  it  was  to  die  with  thee ! 
Far  beneath  that  dread  cyclone, 
All  around  us  rocked  the  sea, 
Crept  the  sea,  sank  the  sea, 
Slept  the  silent  sea. 

Through  our  slumber  sweet  and  deep, 
Stole  the  growing  light  of  dawn ; 

Heart  and  brain  its  warmth  did  steep, 
Out  of  death  our  souls  were  drawn. 
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AMANDA   T.   JONES 

So  we  breathed,  awoke,  arose,— 
Heart  to  heart  and  lip  to  lip ; 
Where  Love's  golden  ocean  flows, 
Ever  sails  our  snowy  ship. 

Never  sun  so  softly  shone  ; 

Fair,  in  saintly  robes  are  we ! 
O'er  us  shrieks  no  mad  cyclone, 
All  around  us  sings  the  sea, 
Gleams  the  sea,  glides  the  sea, 
Laughs  the  lovely  sea ! 


FATHER 

I  PLUCKED  the  bird-foot  violets, 

Long-lobed,  white-hearted,  azure-pale, 

And  odorous  as  heliotropes. 
I  said :    "  The  sun  in  heaven  begets 
No  fairer  flower  to  scent  the  gale 

That  fans  the  angel-haunted  slopes: 
I  would  beneath  his  eyes  they  grew 
Who  loved  me  when  my  years  were  few." 

Oh,  he  was  gentle,  generous,  true! 

He  loved  his  home,  he  loved  his  church, 

He  pitied  sinners  everywhere ; 
The  virtues  of  his  friends  he  knew, 

But  was  not  used  their  faults  to  search, 

Nor  found  them— if  they  were  not  there. 
Whoever  else  is  sick  or  sad, 
I  have  no  doubt  his  life  is  glad. 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Ah  me !  if  but  the  flowers  he  had ! 

That  leaning  down  from  where  he  sings 
(Up-floated  from  the  Heavenly  plains 
With  that  ineffable  glory  clad), 
He  might  behold  the  pallid  things 
All  newly  washed  in  silver  rains, 
And  pleased,  reminded,  murmur  low: 
"  The  earth  bore  violets  long  ago ; 

"  My  little  daughter  watched  them  grow : 
She  traveled  all  the  fields  and  dales, 

Crept  under  zig-zag  fences  rude, 
Waded  through  shallow  waters  slow, 
Went  shoulder-deep  in  meadow-swales, 

And,  charmed  with  woodland  solitude 
Sank  down  at  last,  where  weighed  with  dew, 
The  pretty,  pretty  blossoms  grew. 

"But  these  are  holier  of  hue, 

Are  lovelier  far,  more  sweet  of  breath, 

More  altogether  of  the  skies. 
And  can  it  be  that  world  I  knew 

Is  reeling  out  from  darks  of  Death  ? 

And  would  my  children  all  arise 
And  welcome  me,  if  I  should  bend 
My  flight  their  way  and  so  descend, — 

"  Hand  holding  hand  as  friend  with  friend  ?  " 
And  I  believe  that  he  would  yield 

His  crown,  and  in  the  guise  that  hid 
His  soul  before  the  journey's  end, 

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AMANDA   T.   JONES 

Would  in  the  doorway  stand  revealed ; 

Would  ca/tch  my  hands  as  once  he  did ; 
Would  lift  me,  kiss  me,  hold  me  high, 
And  bid  me  gaze  into  the  sky. 

Then  I  should  see  the  stars  go  by ; 
And  I  should  see — nor  die  to  see — 
Far-off,  far-off,  and  very  faint, 
As  through  a  glass,  not  eye  to  eye, 

Those  who  were  bond  but  now  are  free, 
The  well-beloved  of  that  blest  saint : 
The  two  fair  babes  whose  haste  to  go 
Half  broke  his  heart,  he  loved  them  so ; 

The  pure  young  lad  who  yearned  to  know 
Some  far,  imagined,  perfect  land, 

Some  rose-illumined  Sharon's  vale, 
And  hasted  on  through  wind  and  snow 
With  leaping  foot  and  reaching  hand 

As  Galahad  to  find  the  Grail,— 
Till  passed  some  burning  charioteer 
And  snatched  him  ;  white  with  holy  fear ; 

And  that  proud  patriot-boy,  all  dear 
To  God  and  us ;  no  tongue  can  tell 

How  deep  the  hurt  when  he  went  down ; 
And,  over  all,  those  gray  eyes,  clear 
As  some  unfathomable  well 

Wherein  all  doubts  and  sorrows  drown  — 
The  mother  sighing :    ' '  Long  I  wait ; 
These  are  but  four,  and  those  are  eight." 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Then  I  should  see  the  light  abate ; 
Should  lose  and  lose  the  vision  fair ; 

Should  sink  and  sink, more  closely  pressed,— 
Upon  my  lids  a  flowery  weight, 
A  scent  of  violets  in  the  air ; 

Till  he  would  lift  me  from  his  breast 
All  swooning— love  me,  lay  me  down, 
Pass  out,  and  so  resume  his  crown. 


106 


ELIZABETH    KELLAR 
ELIZABETH  KELLAR 

OUR    NESTS 

IN  yon  soft  nest, 

Bird  babies  rest ; 
The  calm  wind  rocks  the  maple  tree ; 

While  to  my  breast, 

So  tightly  pressed, 
I  rock  my  baby  on  my  knee. 

The  mother-bird 

Knows  not  a  word 
Of  what  I  tell  my  birdy  boy. 

Fond  one,  my  song, 

So  quaint  and  long, 
Is  of  that  nest,  thy  pride,  thy  joy. 

Glad  mothers  we, 
You,  bird,  and  me  — 
And  truly  each  by  Heaven  blessed ; 
Thy  wing,  my  arm, 
Alike  from  harm, 
So  softly  shields  each  tender  nest. 

With  thee,  I  raise 

My  song  of  praise ; 
I  scorn  not,  bird,  to  join  thy  prayer, 

For  well  I  know, 

Each  strain  so  low, 
Must  thank  God  for  his  love  and  care. 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Then  softly  sway, 

At  close  of  day, 
In  thy  arms,  oh,  maple-tree, 

That  precious  nest, — 

While  to  my  breast 
My  fond  arms  fold  my  bird  to  me. 


108 


JAMES    KENDALL    HOSMER 


JAMES   KENDALL   HOSMER 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  LIGHTETH  EVERY  MAN 

Written  for  the  25th  Anniversary  of  Dr.  George  W.  Hosmer's  Pastorate 
in  the  First  Unitarian  Church,  Buffalo,  1861. 


IN  Israel's  temple  Aaron  old 

In  glowing  mitre  sought  the  shrine ; 
His  mantle's  broad  empurpled  fold 

With  cunning  work  embroidered  fine. 
In  vest  of  fine  twined-linen  dressed, 

Besprent  with  golden  clasp  and  gem  ! 
And  censer  swung  and  fumed ;  and  rung 

The  bells  of  gold  that  fringed  the  hem. 

But  chief,  above  his  heart  was  bound 

The  jewelled  breast-plate,  folded  square ; 
And  oft,  or  so  the  tale,  'twas  found 

The  Elohirn  descended  there. 
For  beryl  bright  and  crysolite 

And  sardius  flushed  like  dawn,  oft  poured 
With  fiery  ray ;  and  Aaron  aye 

Bore  judgment  thus  before  the  Lord. 

Thee,  Man  of  now,  no  hand  hath  graced 
With  Aaron's  gorget,  God-controlled ; 

But  on  thy  heart  is  judgment  placed 
Not  less  than  on  the  priest  of  old. 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

From  emerald's  lip  and  sapphire's  deep, 
No  tinted  gush  of  God-sent  might ! 

But  to  thy  soul  for  aye  doth  roll 
Such  holy  force  and  fall  of  light ! 

To  thine — to  all!  the  bigot's  hedge, 

When  God  would  have  unbroken  meads, 
Hath  parcelled  off.    With  thorough  edge 

We  cut  the  pale  that  parts  the  creeds. 
Each  pagan  scheme,  sweet  Truth,  we  deem 

Some  lisp  of  thee ;  not  folly's  lie, — 
A  plot  o'erlaid  too  thick  with  shade 

Whose  healthful  crop  came  scant  thereby. 

Wild  sybils  'mid  your  grottoes  dim 

In  panting  rhapsody  who  speak ! 
Ye  Cymric  bards  who  pour  the  hymn 

Before  your  lichened  altars  bleak ! 
And  Gueber  saint  whose  soul  doth  faint 

While  Sirius  bands  his  troop  of  stars ; 
And  priest  who  turns  from  brimming  urns 

Libation  pure  to  Jove  or  Mars  — 

God's  crude  and  green-hewn  torches  ye ! 

That  foul  the  flame  with  drift  of  smoke, — 
That  show  his  ray  but  glimmeringly ; 

Yet  nought  avails  the  light  to  choke. 
Your  frenzied  chants  and  mystic  dance, 

And  saga  screamed  through  wintry  wood 
By  Odin's  child  — all  worship  wild ! 

All  broken  homage  of  the  good, 
no 


JAMES  KENDALL  HOSME;R 

0,  stream,  for  whose  so  plenteous  tide 

Old  Aaron's  gems  poor  conduits  are, 
Most  sweet,  indeed,  thy  bounty  wide, 

Sent  full  through  zones  and  cycles  far, 
Doth  Druid  bless,  and  Pythoness, 

And  prophet  hoar,  and  all,— but  thou 
The  holier  rush,  and  mellower  gush 

Hast  in  thy  heart,  0,  Man  of  now ! 


ill 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


J.  V.  W.  ANNAN 

IN  CLOVER 

As  through  a  lane  I  chanced  to  pass, 
I  saw  a  primrose  in  the  grass 
Divide  a  laddie  and  a  lass, — 
A  primrose  daunts  no  lover. 

Her  blushes  I  could  plainly  see ; 
The  stain  of  grass  upon  his  knee 
The  story  clearly  told  to  me 
That  he  had  been  in  clover. 

Birds,  too,  were  singing  in  the  air 
Betrothal  songs  so  sweet  and  rare, 
The  lover  listened  as  if  prayer 
Were  taking  wings  above  her. 

Her  head  was  drooped  demurely  down, 
I  think  the  daisies  round  her  gown 
Quite  trembled  'Death  the  sudden  frown 
That  sought  her  joy  to  cover. 

If  lanes  are  narrow,  who  can  miss 
The  air's  reporting  of  a  kiss, 
Or  shun  the  circle  of  the  bliss, 

Which  flowers  and  birds  discover? 


112 


GRANT    P.    ROBINSON 


GRANT  P.  ROBINSON 


WHEN  I  met  him  at  first  he  was  trudging  along, 

His  knapsack  with  chickens  was  swelling ; 
He'd  "Blenkered"  these  dainties  and  thought  it 
no  wrong, 

From  some  secessionist's  dwelling. 
"  What  regiment's  yours?    and  under  whose  flag 

Do  you  fight? "  said  I,  touching  his  shoulder; 
Turning  slowly  around  he  smilingly  said, 

For  the  thought  made  him  stronger  and  bolder: 
"I fights  mitSigel/" 

The  next  time  I  saw  him  his  knapsack  was  gone, 

His  cap  and  canteen  were  missing ; 
Shell,  shrapnel,  and  grape,  and  the  swift  rifle  ball 

Around  him  and  o'er  him  were  hissing. 
' '  How  are  you,  my  friend,  and  where  have  you  been  ? 

In  whose  corps  and  brigade  are  you  fighting?" 
He  said,  as  a  shell  from  the  enemy's -gun 

Sent  his  arin  and  his  musket  a  "kiting" : 
"I  fights  mitSigel!" 

And  once  more  I  saw  him  and  knelt  by  his  side ; 

His  life-blood  was  rapidly  flowing; 
I  whispered  of  home,  wife,  children,  and  friends, 

The  bright  land  to  which  he  was  going ; 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

"  And  have  you  no  word  for  the  dear  one  at  home ; 

The  '  wee  one,'  the  father,  or  mother? " 
"Yes!   yes!"   said  he,  "tell  them,  Oh!   tell  them 

I  fights-" 

Poor  fellow !  he  thought  of  no  other  — 
"I  fights  mitSigel!" 

We  scraped  out  a  grave,  and  he  dreamlessly  sleeps 

On  the  banks  of  the  Shenandoah  River ; 
His  home  or  his  kindred  are  alike  unknown, 

His  reward  in  the  hands  of  the  Giver. 
We  placed  a  rough  board  at  the  head  of  his  grave, 

"And  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory," 
But  on  it  was  marked,  ere  we  turned  from  the  spot, 

,  The  little  we  knew  of  his  story  — 

"I  fights  mitSigel!" 


114 


KEV.    J.    HAZARD    HARTZELL 


REV.  J.  HAZARD  HARTZELL 

THANATOS 

HE  plucks  the  pain  from  youthful  breast, 
And  stills  the  groan  of  burdened  age ; 

He  lays  the  suffering  down  to  rest, 
And  drives  the  cruel  from  the  stage. 

He  takes  no  bribe,  he  fears  no  threat, 

But  walks  the  land,  and  sweeps  the  sea, 

Throws  back  the  doors  whose  hinges  fret, 
And  sets  the  godlike  spirit  free. 

He  raps  the  door  of  rich  and  poor, 

Goes  through  the  earth  with  noiseless  feet ; 

He  shakes  his  glass  at  prince  and  boor, 
Then  winds  them  in  his  icy  sheet. 

He's  strange  and  cold,  breaks  bolts  and  bars, 
Dethrones  the  King,  unbinds  the  slave ; 

He  veils  the  sun  and  hides  the  stars, 
And  lays  a  nation  in  its  grave. 


THE  OLD  HARPER 

WELCOME  all  the  aged  harper, 

As  he  comes  with  shrivelled  hands ; 

Listen  to  his  rapturous  playing, 
And  his  songs  of  glorious  lands. 

115 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

Mark  the  rising  of  his  spirit, 
As  he  picks  melodious  strings ; 

See  the  heaving  of  his  bosom, 

When  song  lifts  her  startling  wings. 

Music  comes  in  joyous  measure, 
Hanging  smiles  on  cherry  lips ; 

It  o'ernows  the  swelling  bosom ; 
From  the  heart  it  sweetly  drips. 

It  has  power  to  conquer  passion, 
Thaw  the  frozen  stream  of  love, 

Clothe  the  soul  in  reverent  beauty, 
Ope  the  starry  gates  above. 

It  can  stop  the  tear  of  sorrow, 

Smooth  the  sullen  frown  of  scorn ; 

It  can  smite  the  night  of  anguish, 
Pitch  the  saffron  tents  of  morn. 

Gone  now  is  the  aged  harper, 

Wandering  through  a  world  of  wrong, 
To  unlock  the  iron  bosom 

With  the  golden  key  of  song. 


THE  DROUTH  IN  JUNE 

THE  sun  shot  forth  his  fiery  rays 
On  restless  seas  and  burning  sand ; 

No  showers  swept  through  our  heated  days 
To  cheer  and  beautify  the  land. 

116 


REV.    J.    HAZARD    HARTZELL 

The  earth  was  parched,  the  springs  were  dry, 
And  withered  were  the  grass  and  corn ; 

The  shining  crescent  lit  the  sky, 
A  grainless  sickle,  till  the  morn. 

The  roads  were  filled  with  dust  and  heat ; 

The  streams  all  weakened  in  their  flow, 
And  dews  refused  to  touch  the  feet 

Of  flocks  that  fed  in  fields  below. 

The  plough  was  followed  in  the  field ; 

The  hoe  was  buried  in  the  soil ; 
But  thirsty  furrows  could  not  yield 

Their  hidden  wealth  to  earnest  toil. 

The  farmer  scanned  his  field  so  bare, 
And  sighed  that  mercy  was  no  more ; 

While  Famine  whined,  he  thought,  in  air, 
And  crouched  around  the  open  door. 

A  frowning  cloud  came  muttering  in, 
And  spread  above  the  suffering  plain ; 

The  thunder  rolled  writh  crashing  din, 
And  earth  drank  in  the  gladdening  rain. 


THE  COMING  OF  EASTER 

Now  ring  the  bells  in  lonely  towers, 

Where  years  shake  dust  from  tireless  wing, 

And  startle  from  their  sleep  the  hours 

Which,  pillowed  on  Night's  bosom,  bring 
117 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Glad  news  to  man,  to  king  and  slave, 
That  Christ  is  risen  from  the  Grave. 

And  make  the  tongue,  embrowned  with  rust, 
Inspire  all  ranks,  both  small  and  great, 

The  soul  is  not  a  speck  of  dust, 

Thrown  blindly  from  the  wheel  of  fate ; 

For  Christ  has  seized  Death's  iron  crown, 

And  trodden  his  dominion  down. 

See !  Nature  feels  the  pulse  of  life, 

Now  throbbing  in  her  swelling  veins, 

As  out  she  comes  from  Winter's  strife 

'  Neath  gladsome  light  and  cheering  rains ; 

And  from  the  grave  of  silent  gloom, 

The  flowers  come  smiling  into  bloom. 

The  Nations  break  from  binding  chains, 
Leave  Care  and  Strife  in  narrow  cells, 
And  bowing  to  the  Love  that  reigns, 

They  worship  '  neath  the  swing  of  bells ; 
And  with  the  rose  of  faith  in  bloom, 
They  rise  with  Christ  above  the  tomb. 

Now  Sorrow  from  her  turbid  stream, 
Climbs  rugged  banks,  and  looks  away 

With  hope  beyond  the  marble  gleam, 
Where  Morning  in  his  mantle  gray, 

Puts  on  his  crown  and  from  his  throne, 

Sends  Easter  to  the  Master's  own. 
118 


REV.    J.    HAZARD    HARTZELL 

0,  Church  of  Christ  with  faith  profound, 
With  windows  rich  with  martyr-stain, 

And  altars  grand,  with  symbols  round, 
Lift  high  the  voice  in  thankful  strain, 

And  let  the  organ's  mighty  peal 

Bespeak  the  joy  the  People  feel ! 


119 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 

JABEZ  LOTON 

WILLIE'S  GRAVE 

EARTH  holds  for  us  one  hallowed  spot, 

So  dear,  that  all  beside 
Might  fade  from  memory's  page  forgot, 

Yet  this  would  e'er  abide. 

To  it  on  precious  pilgrimage 
Our  thoughts  are  daily  bound, 

Whatever  cares  our  hearts  engage, 
Whatever  scenes  surround. 

By  day,  the  sunlight's  golden  bars 

Its  guard  securely  keep ; 
By  night,  the  sympathizing  stars 

Watch  o'er  it  while  we  sleep. 

The  light  winds  kiss  it  as  they  pass, 

The  birds  beside  it  sing ; 
And  o'er  it  in  the  dewy  grass, 

The  little  wild-flowers  spring. 

We  love  the  flowrers,  but  not  for  this 

Hold  we  the  spot  so  dear ; 
We  love  the  birds,  but  not  for  this 

Our  hearts  are  centered  here ; 

Nor  that  the  sweet  breeze  o'er  it  sweeps 
And  plume-like  branches  wave : 

This  spot  a  sacred  treasure  keeps,  — 
This  spot  is  Willie's  grave. 
120 


JABEZ    LOTON 

JESUS    OF  GETHSEMANE 

JESUS  of  Gethseraane,  — 

Victim  of  the  ruthless  tree, 
Soul  of  tenderest  sympathy, 

Pity  me,  pity  me. 

Tossing  all  the  sultry  night 

On  the  restless  bed  of  pain, 
Longing  for  the  morning  light, 

Seeking  ease,  alas,  in  vain ; 

Slake  the  thirst  that  burns  my  tongue, 
Cool,  0  cool,  my  feverish  brow, 

Chase  the  wildering  thoughts  that  throng 
O'er  my  brain,— clear  them  now. 

On  Thy  potent  name  I  call, 

Weary,  helpless,  and  distressed, 

Bless  the  faith  that  looks  through  all, 
Send  me  rest,  send  me  rest. 


SPRING 

THERE'S  a  brighter  blush  of  beauty  on  the  moun 
tains, 

There's  a  richer  gleam  of  sunshine  on  the  sea, 
There's  a  sweeter  sound  of  waters  at  the  fountains, 
There's  a  fresher  flush  of  verdure  on  the  lea. 
121 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  the  woods  are  putting  on  their  gay  adorning, 
And  the  flowers  are  peeping  skyward  from  the 
sod, 

And  the  birds  are  singing  songs  unto  the  morning, 
And  the  mist  ascends  as  incense  unto  God. 

And  the  breeze  goes  wandering  by  with  charmed 

sweetness, 

Won  by  toying  with  the  perfume-laden  trees ; 
Oh!  the  hours  are  winged  with  far  too  much  of 

fleetness, 

We  would  fain  delighted  dwell  with  scenes  like 
these. 

For  the  worn  heart  feels  again  a  thrill  of  pleasure, 
And  the  wan  face  wears  again  the  smile  of 

cheer, 
And   the  tongue   of    sadness   takes   up   music's 

measure, 
To  tell  its  gladness,  Spring,  since  thou  art  here. 


THE   FALLING    SNOW 

How  gently  falls  the  snow ! 

The  air  is  calm  and  still, 
The  whispering  winds  have  ceased  to  blow 

O'er  wintry  plain  and  hill, 
And  now  from  all  the  o'ershadowed  skies 

All  noiselessly  and  slow,— 
As  sent  on  tenderest  ministries, 

So  falls  the  feathery  snow. 
122 


JABEZ    LOTON 

How  rudely  falls  the  snow ! 

When  o'er  the  frost-bound  earth 
The  angry  storm-winds  fiercely  blow 

From  the  far  icy  north ; 
On,  on,  before  the  furious  blast, 

Till  whirled  in  drifts  below, 
The  myriad  flakes  go  hurling  past,— 

So  falls  the  arrowy  snow. 

How  lightly  falls  the  snow! 

To  those  where  fortune  smiles, 
How  gay  the  wintry  moments  go 

Where  festal  mirth  beguiles ; 
'Tis  but  the  call  to  wilder  joy 

Than  milder  seasons  know, 
And  sport  and  dance  the  hours  employ, — 

So  merrily  falls  the  snow. 

How  heavily  falls  the  snow ! 

To  those— the  suffering  poor— 
How  cold  the  hearths  where  want  and  woe 

Have  opened  wide  the  door ; 
0,  long  and  lone  they  count  the  hours, 

And  heart  and  hope  sink  low ; 
For  o'er  their  lot  a  grim  fate  lowers,— 

So  clrearilv  falls  the  snow. 


THE    THUNDER    STORM 

'Tis  noon,  and  as  entranced,  creation  sleeps, 
The  sultry  sun  hangs  in  a  brazen  sky, 

123 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

No  shadow  o'er  the  blue  ethereal  sweeps, 

No  vagrant  breeze  goes  idly  wandering  by. 
Portentous  silence  reigns,  as  if  in  fear 
The  dumb  earth  felt  the  storm  approaching  near. 

For  lo !  slow  gathering  in  the  deepening  west, 

A  murky  monitory  cloud  is  seen, 
And  now  it  elevates  its  towering  crest 

With  threatening  brow,  and  darkens  all  the 

scene. 

Anon,  with  muttering  and  mysterious  sound 
The  thunder  rolls  o'er  all  the  dense  profound. 

Then,  as  if  shot  from  the  impending  sky, 
A  few  drops  strike  the  earth,  a  vivid  flash, 

And  the  terrific  peal  with  quick  reply 

Deafens  the  ear  with  sharp  tumultuous  crash ; 

While  with  impulsive  and  impetuous  roar, 

As  from  a  cataract,  the  torrents  pour. 

But  soon  the  elemental  war  is  past, 

The  scattered  clouds  disclose  a,  fairer  blue, 

On  the  retreating  storm  heaven's  bow  is  cast, 
All  nature  smiles  that  peace  is  made  anew ; 

Sweet  music  thrills  again  the  leafy  shades, 

And  charming  freshness  all  the  air  pervades. 


124 


MARY    E.    MIXER 


MARY  E.  MIXER 

BERNARD  OF  CLUNY 

0  SAINTED  monk  of  Cluny,  didst  thou  dream 
Thy  whispered  prayers  sent  forth  in  holy  song, 
( Which  born  in  heaven,  to  all  the  world  belong) 

Should  bind  the  ages  by  their  mystic  theme  ? 

That  from  that  lonely  cell  a  rainbow  gleam 
Should  span  the  cycles  with  its  radiant  flame, 
Beneath  whose  arch  both  saint  and  sinner  claim 

Communion  sweet  with  the  Great  Heart  Supreme  ? 

Thy  words  of  comfort  are  the  golden  stairs, 
God's  prophet  saw  suspended  from  the  sky ; 

Clinging  to  earth  we  grovel  with  our  cares, 
While  angel  visitants  their  missions  ply ; 

They  soothe  our  sorrows,  upward  bear  our  tears, 
Till  eager  hearts  see  the  " sweet  country"  nigh. 


THE  WEAVER 

WITH  wondrous  skill,  in  the  crowded  mill, 

The  spinner  her  shuttle  plies, 
And  watches  the  web  with  fear  and  dread, 

As  it  forms  beneath  her  eyes ; 
For  well  she  knows  that  one  worthless  thread, 

Inwove  in  those  even  bands, 
Will  be  traced  through  the  fabric  far  or  near 

As  the  work  of  her  careless  hands. 

125 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

In  the  mill  of  life,  full  of  noise  and  strife, 

We  each  have  a  weaver's  part, 
And  the  web  of  each  day,  by  the  passions'  play, 

Is  woven  with  curious  art ; 
But  if  false  to  ourselves,  and  our  Master's  name, 

We  fashion  the  fabric  thin, 
And  with  its  tissue  blend  faulty  threads 

Of  slothfulness  and  sin, 
To  our  own  account  will  the  mischief  come, 

And  take  from  each  joy  its  hoarded  sum. 


CONCORD  TOWN 
In  Memory  of  a  Happy  Day. 

0,  FAMOUS  town !  thy  sweet  elm-shaded  ways 

And  sparkling  stream,  which  tell  the  patriot's 
story, 

Seem  to  have  more  than  rightful  share  of  glory, 
When  we  recall  those  golden  later  days 
Where  flint  and  fire  by  genius  struck  ablaze, 

Wakened  anew  each  legend  stern  and  hoary, 

Making  thy  landmarks  a  Memento  Mori 
That  brought  the  world  upon  thy  shrine  to  gaze. 
Here  the  deep  shades  of  "  Sleepy  Hollow  "  guard 

Him  of  the  mountain,  wood  and  sylvan  stream, 
And  calmly  rests  the  stern  and  fiery  bard 

Whose  magic  touch  unveiled  the  things  that 

seem  ; 
Here,  too,  the  granite  boulder  seamed  and  scarred, 

In  truth  eternal  tell  the  sage's  dream. 

126 


CLARA    A.    HADLEY 


CLARA  A.  HADLEY 

HOME  FROM  THE  WAR 

HOME  from  the  war  he  comes,  he  comes ! 

0,  how  can  a  mother  wait? 
Holding  her  heart  from  her  boy  apart, 

Till  he  leaps  the  garden  gate. 

Home  from  the  war,  all  battle  stained,  — 

He  is  young  to  be  so  blest, 
Raising  his  hand  for  his  fatherland, 

And  now  they  must  let  him  rest. 

Ended  at  last  the  haunting  dreams, 

With  terrible  grim  array 
Of  phantom  fears  that  more  than  the  years, 

Have  frighten'd  my  locks  to  gray. 

He  comes !  he  comes !    I  catch  a  gleam 
From  the  hills  where  he  must  pass ; 

But  my  boy's  glad  bound  is  not  that  sound 
That  rolls  through  the  meadow  grass. 

Why  hear  I  not  some  sweet  salute, 

But  only  this  doling  drum  ? 
0,  mother !  mother !  is  this  the  way 

That  thy  warrior  boy  should  come? 

Home  from  the  war,  they  bring  a  bier 

To  mock  my  expectant  sight ; 
Was  it  for  this  with  such  eager  hands 

That  I  draped  his  room  in  white  ? 
127 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Home  from  the  war !  my  soldier  passed 
Through  the  crimson  field  of  the  slain ; 

And  no  mother's  cry,  nor  bugle  blast 
May  summon  him  back  again. 


THE   SUNDAY   SCHOOL  CHILD 

LITTLE  child,  is  an  angel  nigh, 
Glassing  its  glory  in  thine  eye? 

Or  wears  it  light  the  spirit  bore 
Out  of  the  infinite  before  ? 

Little  child,  is  an  angel  nigh, 
Making  my  soul  within  me  die, 

That  thus  my  shadowed  spirit  lies, 
Afraid  beneath  thy  questioning  eyes  ? 

Sweet  life  that  art,  and  know'st  not  why, 
In  which  such  powers  unconscious  lie; 

Thou  comest  to  be  taught  of  me, 
While  I  must  pray  to  be  like  thee. 

Thou  comest  to  be  taught  of  me, 

Because  of  all  that  is  to  be. 
Folding  thy  little  joys  away, 

To  be  a  child  of  God  to-day. 

What  worldly  wisdom  can  I  give 
To  teach  this  little  one  to  live  ? 

0,  Holy  Spirit,  draw  through  mine, 
This  precious  soul  and  make  it  Thine. 

128 


CLARA    A.    HADLEY 

NOCTURNE 

DARK  and  still,  dark  and  still, 

I  see  no  light  from  the  distant  hill ; 

I  hear  no  sound  from  the  great  world  sea, 

God  and  my  heart  are  all  that  be ! 

Low  it  lies,  low  it  lies, 

My  heart  beneath  His  searching  eyes ; 

With  all  its  sacred  chambers  seen, 

Nor  sight,  nor  sound,  nor  space  between. 

In  the  dust,  heart  of  hearts ! 
What  is  it  that  quickens  all  thy  parts ; 
Through  every  fibre  flashing  fires, 
Purging  away  all  low  desires  ? 

Is  it  life,  is  it  death, 

Thus  catching  away  my  spirit's  breath, 

Surging  it  over  like  a  sea, 

Crushing  it  with  humility? 

Can  it  be,  can  it  be 
That  the  awful  presence  filleth  me  — 
That  nothing  lives  in  earth  or  air  ? 
But  God  and  my  soul  are  everywhere ! 


129 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


AUGUSTUS  RADCLIFFE  GROTE 

THE  MARGUERITE 

PRETTY  flower  that  June  remembers, 
Blossom  that  July  forgets, 

While  my  hand  thy  cup  dismembers 
Pity  me  and  my  regrets ; 

For  of  all  thy  wreathed  glory 
But  one  ray  remains  to  fall, 

And  that  petal  tells  the  story 
That  I  am  not  loved  at  all. 


A    LAST    WORD 

HOLD  thy  heart  within  thy  hand 
Where  the  fools  around  thee  stand, 
So  that  when  they  torture  thee 
Thou  canst  crush  it  and  be  free. 

They  will  show  their  brutal  strength, 
They  will  have  their  way  at  length ; 
This  at  least  they  shall  not  say, 
They  have  touched  my  heart  to-day. 


130 


MARY    NORTON    THOMPSON 


MARY  NORTON  THOMPSON 

IN  MEMORY  OF  THE   PILGRIMS 

CAN  we  forget  our  Pilgrim  sires 

Who  dared  the  stormy  main, 
Who  left  their  dear  old  English  homes, 

Freedom  and  Truth  to  gain  ? 

CHORUS  — Then  sing  to-day  in  praise 

Of  that  brave  band, 
"In  God  we  trust,"  should  ever  be 

The  watchword  of  our  land. 

The  moaning  pines  sad  welcome  gave, 

The  days  fell  dark  and  drear, 
But  in  their  hearts  the  living  flame 

Of  Truth  shone  bright  and  clear. 

When  Spring  the  hillsides  spread  with  green, 

They  counted  not  the  graves 
Of  those  they  loved— with  steadfast  faith 

They  looked  to  Him  who  saves. 

Two  hundred  years  have  rolled  away, 

The  Pilgrim's  work  well  done, 
The  seed  of  Truth  hath  grown  a  tree 

And  Freedom's  nobly  won. 


131 


POETS   AND   POETKY   OF   BUFFALO 


MKS.   ELIZABETH     M.  OLMSTED 

TRAILING  ARBUTUS 

BEHIND  the  bars,  self-drawn,  of  springtime  care, 

Pining  and  sick  for  healing  of  the  woods 

Made  grand  and  tender  by  their  solitudes, 
Sudden  as  answer  to  a  swift-sent  prayer 
Came  rosy  fragrance  cradled  soft  in  moss, — 

Sweet  April  darlings  prattling  of  the  rain, 
Their  mantles  braided  with  a  fairy  floss, 

Eose-tinted  as  a  shell  or  daisy  chain, 
Spring's  spicy  sweetness  on  their  parted  lips 

A-thrill  with  robin's  carol  and  refrain. 
0  pretty  waifs !  already  am  I  glad, 

Who  dared  to  say  the  winter  was  too  drear, 
Since,  folded  in  his  bosom,  he  hath  had 

This  ecstasy  that  fills  the  poet's  year. 


GLEN    IRIS 

Sweet  sylvan  Solitude !  thy  genius  came ! 
Long  ages  waited  for  the  tryst  to  be, 
And  in  a  poet's  dream  of  ecstasy, 

All  smiles  and  tears,  he  spake  thy  fond,  new  name, 
Glen  Iris !  and  the  voice  of  mountain  rills 
With  low,  melodious  thunder  woke  the  hills 
In  answering  echo ;  and  the  swaying  vines 
Made  leafy  canopies,  fair  forest  shrines 

132 


MRS.    ELIZABETH   M.    OLMSTED 

For  silent  worship.    Fairy  troops  of  ferns 
Bent  in  a  mute  obeisance  as  they  passed, 
Where  velvet  mosses  had  their  mantles  cast, 

Leading  the  way  to  nectar-brimming  urns ; 
And  over  all  the  softly  veiling  mist, 
Now    rose,     now   changing    pearl     and    lovely 
amethyst ! 

RESURGEMUS 

AWAY  from  the  old  farm-gate  it  wound, 

The  slow,  sad  funeral- train ; 
For  the  reaper,  Death,  a  sheaf  had  bound 

Of  the  ripe  and  bearded  grain. 

Past  the  fold  where  the  shuddering  flocks 

Wait  for  the  whistle  shrill ; 
Past  the  barn  where  the  swallow  mocks 

The  whirr  of  the  winnowing  mill ; 

Along  where  the  orchard  slants  to  the  sun, 

And  the  fruits  ungarnered  fall ; 
Away  where  the  fields,  half-plowed  and  dun, 

Follow  the  moss-grown  wall. 

Across  the  stream  where  the  drowsy  herds 

Rest  from  the  noontide  heat ; 
Through  the  grove  where  the  brooding  birds 

Coo  to  their  nestlings  sweet; 

Up  the  hill  where  the  church  spire  gleams, 

And  the  church  bell  deals  its  dole ; 
On  to  the  grave  where  the  sunlight  streams 
That  shall  quicken  a  living  soul. 

133 


POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  BUFFALO 

THE  ROBIN'S  TAUNT 

HUSH,  robin  sweet ! 

The  winter  is  here ; 

Oh,  winter  so  drear 
With  its  snow  and  its  sleet ! 

Why  should  you  sing  ? 
The  brooks  are  all  still, 
And  the  springs  are  a-chill, 

Where  you  moistened  your  wing. 

To  my  window  you  come ; 

You're  a  pauper  at  best, 

In  your  little  red  vest ; 
Shall  I  give  you  a  crumb  ? 

What !  gone,  robin  sweet  ? 

Did  I  drive  you  away, 

Who  sang  all  the  day 
In  the  snow  and  the  sleet  ? 


SONNET 

To  Mrs.  George  B.  Mathews, 
On  the  Death  of  her  Father,  Welton  M.  Modisette,  long  blind. 

"Oh,  love!  oh,  light!  dear  one,  lift  up  thy  head!" 
'Tis  thus  thy  father  bids  thee  grieve  no  more : 
Behold  the  brightness  of  that  new-found  shore 

To  which,  through  darkened  days,  his  footsteps 
led, 

134 


MRS.   ELIZABETH   M.   OLMSTED 

The  lamb  of  God  its  very  soul  of  light ! 

What  rapture  of  the  heavenly  dream  fulfilled ! 

The  anguish  and  the  struggle  softly  stilled, 
Fair    morning    breaking    through    the    starless 

night ! 
Oh,  love,  her  waiting  angels  through  the  years 

Wrought  in  his  heart  a  patience  sweet,  divine ; 

He  lived  as  kneeling  at  Faith's  holy  shrine, 
The  comforter  of  sorrow's  untold  tears. 

Wilt  thou  not  listen  to  his  tender  voice? 

"Oh,  love !  oh,  light !  0  daughter  mine,  rejoice !  " 


135 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


MAKY  A.  RIPLEY 

ON    GUARD 

Do  YOU  see  that  strange,  old  picture, 

With  its  stretches  of  broken  wall  ? 
The  leaning  and  prostrate  columns 

Where  the  sunshine  seems  to  fall  ? 
And  the  skeleton  shapes  all  scattered, 

Looking  so  grim  and  hard  ? 
But  this  one — this  is  a  hero, 

A  Roman  who  fell  on  guard. 

This  is  an  ancient  picture  — 

I've  seen  it  for  many  a  year, 
Hanging  just  where  you  see  it, 

Over  the  mantel  here ; 
I'll  tell  you  why  I  have  liked  it 

If  you'll  hear  the  simple  rhyme, 
I'll  paint  you  a  different  picture, 

I'll  show  you  a  fairer  time. 

Yonder  rises  the  mountain, 

And  yonder  tosses  the  sea, 
And  you  look  over  valley  and  water, 

To  the  pleasant  hills  of  Capri ; 
The  sky  is  so  blue  above  us, 

And  the  air  is  so  balmy  and  still, 
That  we  doubt  the  terrible  story 

That  makes  our  pulses  thrill. 

136 


MARY   A.    RIPLEY 

A  hundred  years  had  not  vanished, 

Since  Christ  walked  on  the  earth, 
Pompeii's  gardens  and  vineyards 

Were  ringing  with  festival  mirth. 
Above,  the  Yesuvian  forests 

Spread  grandly  their  branches  of  green, 
And  the  hillsides  shone  out  in  their  beauty, 

A  land  of  enchantment,  I  ween. 

This  is  the  picture  I  show  you— 

Palace,  and  villa,  and  fount, 
Temple,  and  tower,  and  terrace, 

Under  a  vine-covered  mount, 
All  this  glory  was  buried  — 

Sealed  by  that  ashen  rain ; 
Stattie,  and  altar,  and  column, 

Sepulchre,  forum,  and  fane. 

Centuries  heaped  upon  centuries 

Work  out  their  wonderful  deeds ; 
Truth  has  grown  strong  with  the  ages, 

Crushing  down  soul-killing  creeds. 
Man  has  stood  firm  for  his  birthright, 

Freedom  is  throned  in  the  West, 
Onward  the  march,  and  still  onward, 

Nevermore  sinking  to  rest. 

But  what  of  the  deep-buried  city 

Under  the  fire-smitten  hill  ? 
What  of  the  maidens  and  matrons, 

Lying  there  hidden  and  still  ? 

137 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Off  with  their  ashen  covering ! 

Bring  them  out  into  the  light ! 
Let  the  old  halls  of  Pompeii 

Break  on  the  world's  waiting  sight ! 

Stalwart  hands  were  outstretched  then, 

And  the  sunlight  crept  along, 
Following  the  dusky  toiler, 

Working  with  jest  and  song ; 
Suddenly,  all  was  silent, 

The  sw^arthy  face  grew  white ; 
There  lay  a  noble  lady 

Decked  in  her  jewels  bright. 

There  was  her  little  daughter, 

And  there  was  her  princely  boy ; 
The  tempest  came  down  upon  them, 

In  their  festal  hour  of  joy. 
And  under  an  arch  of  triumph, 

A  slave  with  his  master  lay ; 
They  had  perished  beside  an  altar 

As  they  lingered  there  to  pray. 

So  the  toilers  slowly  lifted 

The  shroud  from  off  the  past ; 
Statue,  and  tomb,  and  temple, 

Stood  out  in  the  day  at  last. 
But  the  grandest  thing  they  found  there, 

His  fame  by  time  unmarred, 
Was  the  valiant  Roman  soldier, 

Who  had  fallen  while  on  guard. 

138 


MARY   A.   RIPLEY 

Do  you  see  what  a  radiant  glory 

Rests  on  his  regal  head  ? 
Is  it  the  summer  sunshine 

On  his  brave,  broad  forehead  shed  ? 
Is  it  a  mystic  token 

That  valor  forever  lives? 
Or  is  it  my  soul  that  crowns  him 

For  the  lesson  that  he  gives  ? 

For  in  that  terrible  ruin, 

Men  fleeing  in  pallid  fear, 
Some  grasping  their  gold  and  jewels, 

He  found  his  duty  here. 
The  temple  might  open  its  portals, 

The  palace  unbar  its  gate, 
But  the  soldier  on  guard  was  unheeding, 

He  must  bravely  watch  and  wait. 

What  are  mosaics  and  marbles  ? 

What  are  bright  jewels  and  gold  ? 
What  are  the  antique  treasures, 

Out  of  the  gray  dust  rolled  ? 
Nothing,  beside  the  master  — 

Lord  of  a  royal  heart — 
Wliom  frenzy  nor  wild  disaster 

Could  drive  from  his  task  apart. 

So  in  life's  tumult  and  tempest, 
Let  us  stand  firm  for  the  right, 

Whether  we  toil  with  the  weakest 
Or  under  the  banner  of  might. 

139 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Then  when  the  dead  world  is  summoned, 
When  the  dark  tomb  is  unbarred, 

God's  blessed  angels  shall  find  us, 
Fallen  while  standing  on  guard. 


DEH-GA-YA-SOH 

From  "Voices  of  the  Glen." 

CREEPING  adown  the  gray  old  wall, 

Comes  Deh-ga-ya-soh,  the  waterfall. 

Looking  through  twilight  to  catch  the  sight 

We  see  the  shimmer  of  raiment  white. 

The  moonshine  lies  on  her  silver  hair, 

It  crowns  with  brightness  her  brow  so  rare ; 

While  silently  down  the  mossy  wall, 

She  creeps  like  a  phantom  waterfall. 

As  low  she  leaps  to  the  starlit  glen, 

Her  beauty  steals  to  my  feet  again ; 

And  I  reach  my  hand  as  she  hurries  by 

Where  the  leaves  and  the  purple  flowerets  lie. 

I  reach  my  hand  for  the  maiden's  kiss, 

Ere  she  wanders  away  through  the  deep  abyss. 

A  splash  of  water  o'er  ragged  stone, 

And  I  am  left  in  the  dark  alone. 

But  ever  she  comes  and  ever  she  goes, 

And  over  the  spot  her  magic  throws, 

Till  a  nameless  mystery  wraps  the  shade, 

Where  naught  but  the  leaves  and  waters  played; 

140 


MARY    A.    RIPLEY 

And  a  mystical  chant  thrills  all  the  air, 
As  we  linger  arid  list  to  the  voices  there ; 
And  we  see  a  spirit  in  saintly  white, 
Where  Deh-ga-ya-soh  falls  down  in  light. 


OH,   POET!    SING  AN  AUTUMN  SONG! 

OH,  POET!  sing  an  autumn  song! 
The  forest  shows  a  burning  crown, 
Our  birds  to  southern  isles  have  flown ; 

Oh,  Poet!  sing  an  autumn  song! 

The  hurrying  brook  moans  cheerlessly 
Between  its  faded,  flowerless  banks ; 
The  willows  stand  in  drooping  ranks 

Where  summer  walked  so  peerlessly. 

Against  the  cold  October  sky, 
I  see  bright  crimson  banners  hang ; 
And  where  the  nestled  birdling  sang, 

The  faded,  ashen  streamers  fly. 

And  autumn's  flaming  leaves  fall  fast 
On  tiny  mounds  and  lengthened  graves ; 
The  church-yard  shows  its  phosphor  waves, 

Seared  foot-prints  of  a  fiery  past. 

Oh,  Poet!  sing  an  autumn  song! 
The  day  is  drear,  and  life  is  low, 
The  vernal  tides  have  backward  flow, 

And  winter  hours  are  dark  and  long. 
OCTOBER,  1859. 

141 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

FLORIDA    FLOWERS 

YE  make  me  dream,  ye  simple  things, 

Of  warmer,  bluer  skies, 
Of  twittering  birds,  and  scented  woods 

Where  summer  fountains  rise. 

I  see  the  white  waves  wash  the  shore, 

As  on  that  Easter  Day, 
When  bright  before  the  Spanish  ships 

The  flowery  landscape  lay. 

I  read  upon  your  fading  leaves 

Old  Ponce  de  Leon's  fame, 
And  marvel  not  your  balmy  breath 

Should  give  the  land  its  name. 

So  like  a  grand  cathedral  looked 

The  strange,  wild  forest  scene ; 
Gray  columns  twined  with  mossy  wreath, 

And  blossomed  aisles  between, 

That  "Pascus  Florida,"  they  said, 
"  Here  Christ  shall  be  adored ! " 

And  so  they  named  it  "Florida," 
In  honor  of  our  Lord. 


FOR    THEE 
The  last  poem  written  by  Mary  A.  Ripley. 

I  WEARY,  for  the  way  is  hard  and  long ; 
I  have  forgot  my  early  morning  song ; 
Footsore  and  faint,  upon  the  ground,  I  lie ; 
Out  of  the  dust,  I  only  send  a  cry 
For  Thee. 

142 


MARY   A.    RIPLEY 

I  hunger,  for  my  food  is  bitter  bread, 
Mingled  with  falling  tears  which  I  have  shed ; 
Out  of  the  arms  of  death,  or  ere  I  die, 
My  suffering  soul  lifts  up  her  pleading  cry 
For  Thee. 

I  thirst ;  the  cooling  springs  no  more  o'erflow, 
The  summer  drought  has  touched  their  sources  so; 
My  spirit  fails  beneath  a  fervid  sky, 
Yet  my  hot  lips  still  tremble  with  a  cry 
For  Thee. 

0,  Way  of  Life !  draw  in  my  weary  feet ! 
0,  Bread  of  Life !  of  Thee  I  fain  would  eat ! 
0,  Living  Water !  fill  my  chalice  high ! 
0,  Blessed  Christ !  now  hear  my  suppliant  cry 
For  Thee. 


143 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


JAMES  N.  JOHNSTON 

ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

April,  1865. 

BEAR  him  to  his  Western  home, 

Whence  he  came  four  years  ago ; 

Not  beneath  some  Eastern  dome, 

But  where  Freedom's  airs  may  come, 

Where  the  prairie  grasses  grow, 

To  the  friends  who  loved  him  so. 

Take  him  to  his  quiet  rest ; 

Toll  the  bell  and  fire  the  gun ; 
He  who  served  his  Country  best, 
He  whom  millions  loved  and  bless'd, 

Now  has  fame  immortal  won ; 

Rack  of  brain  and  heart  is  done. 

Shed  thy  tears,  0 !  April  rain, 
O'er  the  tomb  wherein  he  sleeps ! 

Wash  away  the  bloody  stain ! 

Drape  the  skies  in  grief,  0,  rain ! 
Lo !  a  nation  with  thee  weeps, 

Grieving  o'er  her  martyred  slain. 

To  the  people  whence  he  came, 
Bear  him  gently  back  again. 

Greater  his  than  victor's  fame; 
His  is  now  a  sainted  name ; 

Never  ruler  had  such  gain  — 

Never  people  had  such  pain. 

144 


JAMES   N.   JOHNSTON 


IN    VAIN,    O    MAN!    CONTENDING 
From  the  German. 


IN  vain,  0  roan !  contending ; 

Thou  mak'st  but  care  and  pain; 
A  life-repose  intending 

Thou  never  canst  attain. 
O'ertakes  the  king  and  peasant 
Alike,  death's  fearful  smart, 
Be  silent  for  the  present, 

And  patient,  0  my  heart ! 

Not  ever  bloom  the  roses, 

A  storm  and  they  must  fall ; 
Yet  mother-earth  discloses 

A  grave  prepared  for  all ; 
The  day  that  has  no  morrow  — 

When  that  last  day  appears, 
Then  ended  is  all  sorrow 

And  wept  are  all  our  tears. 

From  woes  no  man  can  number 

We're  borne  at  last  to  rest ; 
Close-to,  in  endless  slumber, 

Are  weary  eyelids  pressed ; 
Death's  arrow  is  unfailing 

To  quiet  every  smart ; 
A  few  more  days  of  ailing, 

Be  patient,  0  my  heart ! 


145 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

A    MEMORY 

BRIGHT  summer  dream  of  white  cascade, 

Of  lake,  and  wood,  and  river ! 
The  vision  from  the  eye  may  fade,— 
The  heart  keeps  it  forever. 

There  beauty  dwells 

In  rarest  dells,— 
There  every  leaf  rejoices; 

By  cliff  and  steep, 

By  crag  and  deep, 
You  hear  their  pleasant  voices. 

JFrom  forest,  flower  and  meadow  bloom, 

The  soft  wind  passing  over, 
Brings  the  wild  roses'  fresh  perfume, 
The  sweet  breath  of  the  clover ; 

And  odors  rare, 

Pulse  through  the  air, 
In  waves  of  pleasure  flowing, — 

We  dream  away 

The  passing  day, 
Regardless  of  its  going. 

Through  leafy  boughs  the  sunlight  glows, 

The  skies  are  blue  above  us, 
The  happy  laugh  that  comes  and  goes 
Is  from  the  friends  who  love  us... 
Oh !  bliss  combined 
Of  sense  and  mind, 

146 


JAMES   N.   JOHNSTON 

Kare  boon  to  mortals  given, 

Before  our  eyes 

Is  Paradise, 
Above  the  blue  is  heaven ! 

Take,  Memory,  to  thy  choicest  shrine, 

And  guard  as  sacred  treasure, 
The  hours  of  ecstacy  divine, 
The  days  of  untold  pleasure ; 

Though  many  a  scene 

May  come  between, 
In  way  of  future  duty, 

We  still  shall  deem 

Our  summer  dream 
As  peerless  in  its  beauty. 


SAINT  AUGUSTINE 

I  SILENTLY  sit  by  the  Spanish  Fort, 

And  watch  the  ensign  fall ; 
The  white-sailed  boats  are  seeking  the  port, 

Or  lie  by  the  low  sea-wall. 

And  darkness  spreads  o'er  the  eastern  sky, 
Save  the  "  flash-light "  by  the  shore, 

I  hear  the  Matanzas  ebbing  by, 
And  the  ocean's  distant  roar. 

Stilled  is  the  beat  of  the  sea-birds'  wings, 
And  borne  on  the  evening  breeze 

There  comes  the  calm  that  the  twilight  brings 
From  gardens  of  tropical  trees. 

147 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  odors  of  sweetness  fill  the  air, 

As  the  shadows  fall  on  the  deep ; 
And  lost  are  time,  and  space,  and  care, 

And  whether  I  wake  or  sleep. 

For  thoughts  are  mine,  which  no  one  tells,  — 

Of  what  life  has  brought  to  me ; 
They  came  from  the  old  cathedral  bells, 

And  are  gone  on  an  endless  sea. 


REST 

NATURE  rewards  a  friendly  eye — 
Reveals  herself  to  sympathy, 
But  coldly  meets  the  passer-by. 

And  he  who'd  win  her  peerless  grace, 
Or  scan  the  fairness  of  her  face, 
Must  seek  her  in  her  dwelling-place. 

The  rifted  clouds  are  snowy-fleeced, 
The  gorgeous  sun  ascends  the  East, 
A  fiery-vestured  Orient  priest. 

The  pine-tops  glisten  in  his  glow, 

The  brooks  are  burnished  in  their  flow, 

A  brightness  rests  on  all  below : 

On  leaf-roofed  nook  and  wooded  ridge, 
On  cataract  and  lofty  bridge, 
Down  to  the  kindly  water's  edge. 

148 


JAMES   N.   JOHNSTON 

Away  from  narrow,  selfish  schemes ; 
Where  cheerful  sunshine  ever  beams, 
In  hallowed  rest  my  spirit  dreams. 

From  human  strife  and  wordy  brawls, 
I  list  to  Nature's  pleasant  calls, 
And  drink  the  joy  of  waterfalls. 

A  halo  rests  on  rock  and  tree, 
A  glory  flits  across  the  lea— 
God's  work  in  beauty  robed  I  see. 

While  upward  mounts  the  smoking  spray, 
Soft  airs  about  my  temples  play, 
And  breezes  kiss  the  heat  away. 

Beyond  the  river's  graceful  leap, 

Where  white-lipped  segments  seek  the  deep, 

The  shining  waters  downward  creep. 

The  sky  bends  o'er  us  crystal-clear, 
No  tokened  wraith  of  storm  is  near, 
And  yet  God's  covenant  is  here ! 

Calm's  finger  leaneth  on  the  air, 
Peace  dwelleth  on  the  waters  there, 
And  Rest  abideth  everywhere. 

The  air  is  full  of  symphonies, 
Leaf -rustles  and  the  hum  of  bees, 
And  sounds  like  roar  of  distant  seas. 

Love's  curtain  shuts  the  past  so  grim, 
No  future  cometh  dark  or  dim, 
In  present  bliss  the  senses  swim. 

149 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  MARY  E.  LORD 

QUEEN  CITY  of  the  western  lake, 

By  Erie's  pleasant  waters, 
You  mourn  for  her  whom  death  did  take  — 

The  kindliest  of  your  daughters. 

A  child  of  yours,  she  loved  you  well, 
She  shared  your  growth  and  glory ; 

Her  name  shall  in  your  annals  dwell, 
Her  life  will  be  your  story. 

The  joys  of  nature  were  her  own, 

In  country  or  in  city ; 
Of  all  God's  creatures  she  found  none 

Too  low  for  love  and  pity. 

Into  her  hospitable  home 

Came  many  a  woodland  stranger, 

For  there  they  fearlessly  might  roam, 
Secure  from  foe  and  danger. 

When  hearts  were  cold  and  law  was  dead, 

She  saw  the  horse  o'erloaded, 
The  wound  unhealed,  the  kine  unfed, 

The  beast  to  th'  shambles  goaded. 
Her  woman's  soul,  with  holy  zeal, 

Passed  not  the  wrong  unheeded ; 
She  taught  a  city's  heart  to  feel, 

And  conquered  where  she  pleaded. 
The  true,  the  tender  one  is  gone, 

The  faithful  heart  is  sleeping ; 
Home  of  our  dead,  dear  Forest  Lawn, 

We  leave  her  in  your  keeping. 

150 


JAMES   N.   JOHNSTON 

TO   GLEN  IEIS 

The  home,  at  Portage,  N.  Y.,  of  the  Honorable  William  Pryor  Letchworth, 
LL.  D.,  the  widely-known  Author  and  Philanthropist. 

FOR  all  the  magic  by  thy  master  wrought, 

In  working  out  on  thee  his  bounteous  scheme, 
And  making  thee  an  artist-poet's  dream, — 

For  friendship's  sweet  repose,  exalted  thought 
And  generous  welcome,  ever  unforgot, 

Thy  summer  woods,  the  moonlight  on  the  stream, 
With  all  the  memories  that  rise  supreme, — 

Dear  Glen,  for  these  alone  I  love  thee  not. 
Thy  master's  weary  years  of  ceaseless  care 

To  aid  the  sick,  the  hapless  one  to  seek,— 
His  voice  of  mercy  pleading  for  the  weak, — 

His  word  of  hope  to  brighten  dark  despair,— 
His  potent  message  helpful  everywhere, — 

For  these  I  love  thee  most  and  these  forever  speak. 


151 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


DAVID  GRAY 

THE   FOG  BELL  AT  NIGHT 

OUT  on  the  dim  and  desolate  lake, 

Chime  on  chime  falls,  measured  and  slow ; 
Scarce  the  dull  trance  of  the  night  they  break, 

Sounding  so  wearily,  long  and  low ; 
Telling  the  hour  in  its  voiceless  flight  — 

Stirring  old  thoughts  of  our  dear,  dead  joys : 
0,  dreary,  mysterious  night, 

Shadow  and  fear  have  at  last  a  voice. 

Far  in  a  region  of  dream-delight, 

Fondly  I  wandered  but  moments  ago, — 
Ah,  that  knell  from  the  distant  night, 

Hanging  my  dreams  with  trappings  of  woe ! 
Sadly,  solemnly  tolling— tolling, 

Floating  afar  on  the  misty  air ; 
Every  bell  like  a  dirge  is  knolling, 

Every  chime  is  a  funeral  prayer ! 

" Life ! "  they  cry  to  the  mariner,  seaward,— 

What  to  the  slumbering  thousands  near  ? 
Father  above,  do  they  beckon  us  Thee- ward  ? 

See !  I  strain  thro'  the  night  to  hear ! 
Sadly,  solemnly  tolling — tolling, 

Dying  away  on  the  ghostly  air, — 
Every  bell  for  a  soul  is  knolling, 

Every  chime  is  a  funeral  prayer. 

152 


DAVID  GRAY 

THE  LAST  COUNCIL  ON  THE  GENESEE 

THE  fire  sinks  low ;  the  drifting  smoke 

Dies  softly  in  the  autumn  haze ; 
And  silent  are  the  tongues  that  woke 

In  speech  of  other  days. 
Gone,  too,  the  dusky  ghosts  whose  feet 

But  now  yon  listening  thicket  stirred ; 
Unscared  within  its  covert  meet 

The  squirrel  and  the  bird. 

The  story  of  the  past  is  told ; 

But  thou,  0  Valley  sweet  and  lone  — 
Glen  of  the  rainbow  — thou  shalt  hold 

Its  romance  as  thine  own ! 
Thoughts  of  thine  ancient  forest  prime 

Shall  sometimes  tinge  thy  summer  dreams, 
And  shape  to  low  poetic  rhyme 

The  music  of  thy  streams. 

When  Indian  Summer  flings  her  cloak 

Of  brooding  azure  on  the  woods, 
The  pathos  of  a  vanished  folk 

Shall  haunt  thy  solitudes. 
The  blue  smoke  of  their  fires,  once  more, 

Far  o'er  the  hills  shall  seem  to  rise, 
And  sunset's  golden  clouds  restore 

The  red  man's  paradise. 

Strange  sounds  of  a  forgotten  tongue 
Shall  cling  to  many  a  crag  and  cave, 

In  wash  of  falling  waters  sung, 
Or  murmur  of  the  wave. 

153 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  oft  in  midmost  hush  of  night, 

Shrill,o'er  the  deep-mouthed  cataract's  roar, 

Shall  ring  the  war-cry  from  the  height, 
That  woke  the  wilds  of  yore. 

Sweet  Vale,  more  peaceful  bend  thy  skies,  ' 

Thy  airs  be  fraught  with  rarer  balm ! 
A  people's  busy  tumult  lies 

Hushed  in  thy  sylvan  calm. 
Deep  be  thy  peace !  while  fancy  frames 

Soft  idyls  of  thy  dwellers  fled  ;— 
They  loved  thee,  called  thee  gentle  names, 

In  the  long  summers  dead. 

Quenched  is  the  fire ;  the  drifting  smoke 

Has  vanished  in  the  autumn  haze ; 
Gone  too,  0  Vale,  the  simple  folk 

Who  loved  thee  in  old  days. 
But,  for  their  sakes — their  lives  serene, 

Their  loves,  perchance  as  sweet  as  ours  — 
Oh,  be  thy  woods  for  aye  more  green, 

And  fairer  bloom  thy  flowers ! 


COMING 

SHE  said  she'd  come  in  May,  but  it  seemed  so  far 

away 

That  our  hearts  grew  sick  at  first,  to  think  of 
waiting  her  so  long ; 

154 


DAVID    GRAY 

And  the  months  were  counted  o'er,  to  the  day  that 

-should  restore 

In  one  rich  gift  the  spring  to  earth,  to  us  our 
light  and  song. 

And  autumn  shed  its  leaves  on   the  wind  that 

comes  and  grieves 
In  the  wood  and  'round  the  houses,  like  a  ghost 

that  died  of  woe ; 
And  the  dull,  cold  clouds,  at  last,  drooped  and 

whitened  in  the  blast, 

Till  all  the  earth  lay  still  as  death,  in  one  long 
dream  of  snow. 

But  long  ere  spring  had  filled  the  earth  with  sap, 

or  thrilled 

The  subtle  nerves  of  flowers,  or  called  to  swal 
lows  o'er  the  main, 
Our  hearts  had  felt  the  stir  of  the  spring  to  come 

with  her, 

And  yearned  with  joyous  thoughts  to  greet  our 
darling  back  again. 

And  the  snowdrop  floated  up  from  the  snow  its 

fragile  cup ; 
And  the  violets  stole  the  blue  of   heaven,  one 

morning  after  rain ; 
And  the  wild  anemone  met  us  trembling  on  the 

lea,— 

All  with  the  sole  sweet  words  to  tell :    '  She  is 
coming  back  again ' ; 

155 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Fast,  fast,  0  March,  fleet  past,  on  thy  winter- 
battling  blast, 
And,  gentle  April,  linger  not  beneath  thy  skies 

of  rain; 
But  strew  thy  scanty  flowers,  and  speed  the  happy 

hours 

That  bring  sweet  May  to  earth,  to  us  our  dar 
ling  back  again ! 


DEDICATION  IN  A   LADY  S  ALBUM 

I  THINK  now,  of  some  knight  in  fairy  times, 

Whose  footsteps  falter  on  the  charmed  limits 

Of  some  enchanted  place,  where,  in  the  hush 

Of  vacant  halls,  white  Silence  is  uprisen, 

Her  finger  high  uplifted  to  forbid 

The  impending  foot ;  for,  Mary,  so  my  pen 

Hath  faltered  at  the  white,  untrodden  threshold 

Of  this,  thy  Book  of  Beauty.    I  would  fain 

Some  worthier  hand  than  mine  had  broke  the  spell 

Which  sat  till  now  about  its  golden  rim. 

But,  as  it  is,  the  spell  is  broken ;  and  these  pages  — 

May  their  unwritten  vacancy  become 

A  beauteous  garden,  where  sweet  thoughts  shall 

blossom ;  — 
A  place  where  dear  desires  and  hopes  shall  nes- 

tie;- 

A  fount,  where  Memory,  mayhap  worn  and  weary, 
In  after  years  shall,  bending,  drink  and  rise 
Thrilled  with  the  wild,  wild  life  of  long  ago ! 

156 


DAVID    GKAY 

SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN  AND  HIS  CREW 

TOLL  the  saintly  minster  bell, 

For  we  know  they're  now  at  rest; 
Where  they  lie,  they  sleep  as  well 

As  in  kirkyard  old  and  blest. 
Let  the  requiem  echo  free 

From  the  shores  of  England,  forth 
Over  leagues  of  angry  sea, 

Toward  the  silence  of  the  North. 

Half  a  score  of  years  or  more, 

They  were  phantoms  in  our  dreams ; 
Many  a  night,  on  many  a  shore 

Lit  by  wan  Aurora  gleams, 
We  have  tracked  the  ghostly  band  — 

Seen  distressful  signals  wave  — 
Till  we  find  dim  William's  Land 

Holy  with  the  heroes'  grave. 

Toll  the  bell,  that  they  may  rest, 

Haunting  spectres  of  our  brain, — 
They  for  whom  her  tireless  quest 

Love  pursued  so  long  in  vain. 
Nevermore  let  fancy  feign 

That  the  wondering  Esquimaux 
Haply  sees  them  toil  again, 

Wild  and  haggard,  through  the  snow. 

From  the  Erebus  they  pass'd 
To  a  realm  of  light  and  balm ; 

And  the  Terror  sailed  at  last 
Into  peace  and  perfect  calm. 

157 


POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  BUFFALO 

Toll  the  bell ;  but  let  its  voice, 

Moaning  in  the  minster  dome, 
Change  at  times,  and  half  rejoice; 

For  the  mariners  are  home ! 


A  NINETEENTH  CENTURY   SAINT 

BEAUTIFUL  is  my  darling's  face ; 

And,  yet,  I  know  her  heart  so  well 
That,  thinking  always  of  the  pearl, 

I  have  not  time  to  praise  the  shell. 
I  care  not  that  with  words  of  mine 

Her  eyes'  deep  splendor  be  extolled, 
Nor  any  wreath  of  speech  would  twine 

Within  her  tresses'  wavy  gold. 
Not  mine  to  praise  the  Saxon  hue 

That  on  her  cheek  the  rose  outstrips, 

Nor  see  in  curvings  of  her  lips 
Some  Greek  ideal  born  anew. 
Ah,  no ;  far  other  court  is  due, 

From  such  as  near  her  heart  may  dwell, 

My  darling,  whom  I  love  so  well. 

I  think  (while  softer  fancies  sleep) 
Of  those  old  altar-pictures,  quaint, 
Which  pure-souled  Memling  loved  to  paint ; 

Or  those  that  in  fair  Florence  keep 
His  fame  as  limner  and  as  saint, 

Who,  kneeling,  painted  heaven,  and  so 

Was  named  of  men  Angelico. 

168 


DAVID    GKAY 

All  shut,  such  reliquaries  stand, 
Kich  paintings  on  each  folded  lid 
That  keeps  the  inner  beauty  hid,* 

And  almost  one  is  stopped  to  gaze, 

And  half — before  the  doors  expand  — 

Would  lift  the  censor  of  his  praise. 

But,  open !  and  there  straightway  beam 

Such  glories  of  the  fairer  dream, 
All  other  light  is  quenched  than  its. 

Unclouded  glows  the  golden  air, 

And  ringed  with  heaven's  own  aureole, 

The  very  deep  of  Beauty's  soul 
Throbs  visible  where  The  Virgin  sits. 

So,  curtained  from  the  vulgar  eye, 
Abides  the  vision,  chaste  and  fair ; 

And  though  the  world  may  pass  it  by, 
Or  laud  its  covering  unaware, 
0  soul  of  love !  0  heart  of  prayer ! 
Look  inward ;  for  the  shrine  is  there ! 

*  Some  of  the  most  beautiful  paintings  by  the  old  masters  are  covered 
by  folding  lids,  on  which  pictures  have  been  painted  by  an  inferior  hand. 


HOW   THE  YOUNG  COLONEL  DIED 

You  want  to  hear  me  tell  you,  how  the  young 

Colonel  died? 
God  help  me,  memory  will  not  fail  on  that,  nor 

tongue  be  tied. 

159 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Aye,  write  it  down  and  print  it  in  your  biggest 

type  of  gold, 
For,  sure,  a  braver   heart  than    his   no  mortal 

breast  could  hold. 
'Twas  the  second  weary  night  of  that  hot  and 

bloody  June ; 
Through  the  brush,  along  the  picket,  we  walked 

beneath  "the  moon ; 
Behind  us,  sixty  miles  of  death,  Virginia's  thickets 

lay; 
Before  us  was  Cold  Harbor,— the  hell  to  come 

next  day ; 
We  talked  about  old  Buffalo,  and  how  the  girls  we 

knew, 
At  the  door-steps,  with  their  sweethearts,  sat  in 

the  silver  dew. 
And,  looking  at  the  fields  below,  where  the  mist 

lay  like  a  pond, 
We  seemed  to  see  the  long  dark  streets  and  the 

white  lake  far  beyond. 
Then,  turning  sudden:    "George,"  he  said,  "I'm 

glad  a  moon  so  bright 
Will   hold   her  face   to   mine,    wThen   I   lie   dead 

to-morrow  night ! " 
We  charged,  at  noon,  the  Colonel  led  green  Erin's 

old  brigade, 
'Twas  Longstreets'  blazing  cannon  behind  their 

breast-works  played. 
We  charged,  till,  full  in  front,  we  felt  that  fiery 

breaker  swell  — 

160 


DAVID    GRAY 

A  sea  of  rattling  muskets,  in  a  storm  of  grape 

and  shell !  — 
The  Colonel  led,  in  fire  and  smoke  his  sword  would 

wave  and  shine, 
And  still  the  brave  sound  of  his  voice  drew  on 

the  straggling  line. 
Then,  all  at  once,  our  colors  sank ;  I  saw  them  reel 

and  nod ; 
The  Colonel  jumped  and  took  them  before  they 

touched  the  sod ; 
Another  spring,  and,  with  a  shout  —  the  rebs  wrill 

mind  it  well  — 
He  stood  alone  upon  their  w^orks,  waved  the  old 

flag,  and  fell ! 
As  o'er  the  surf  at  Wicklow  I've  seen  the  sea-gull 

%, 

His  voice  had  sailed  above  the  storm,  and  sounded 

clear  and  high ; 
It  seemed,  I  swear,  I  had  not  heard  the  hellish  rack 

and  din, 

Till  then,  all  sudden,  on  my  ears,  the  thunder- 
crash  rushed  in. 
'Twas  vain  to  stand  up  longer ;  what  could  they 

do  but  yield  ? 
Our   broken    remnant   melted    back,    across   the 

bloody  field. 
I  staid  to  help  the  Colonel,  and  crept  to  where  he 

lay. 
A  smile  came,  tender,  o'er  his  face,  but  he  motioned 

me  away. 

161 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

I  bent  to  watch  his  parting  lips  and  shade  him  from 

the  light — 
"I'm  torn  to  pieces,  George,"  he  said;  "go,  save 

yourself —good-night ! " 
As  tender  as  my  mother's,  that  smile  came  up  and 

shone 
Once  more  upon  his  marble  face  and  the  gallant 

soul  was  gone ! 
Three  times  the  same  full  moon  arose  and  looked 

him  face  to  face, 
Before  the  rebels  flung  a  truce  above  the  cursed 

place. 
We  laid  him  near  Cold  Harbor,  but  the  spot  is 

bleak  and  bare, — 
I  hate  to  think  that  I'm  at  home,  and  he  still 

lying  there. 
I  doubt  his  sleep  will  not  be  sweet  nor  his  loving 

spirit  still, 
Till   he  lies  among  the  friendly  dust  of  yonder 

slanting  hill, 
Where,  from  the  streets  he  loved  so  well,  might 

float  their  daily  hum, 
And  the  lake's  low  roar  upon  the  beach,  in  quiet 

nights  would  come. 
Ah!  well  the  town  might  plant  his  tomb,  with 

marble  words  to  tell 
How  the  bravest  of  her  blood  was  poured  when 

young  McMahon  fell.* 

*  Colonel  James  P.  McMahon,  of  the  164th  Regiment,  N.  Y.  S.  Volunteers. 

162 


DAVID    GEAY 


WHENCE  is  the  spell  — 0,  fair  and  free  from  guile, 

Thou  with  the  young  moon  shod!  that  binds 
my  brain  ? 

Is  thine  that  orb  of  fable,  which  did  wane, 
Darkening  o'er  sad  Ortygia's  templed  isle, — 
Beautiful  Artemis,  hid  from  earth  awhile, 

And  on  the  pale  monk's  vigil  risen  again, 

A  wonder  in  the  starry  sky  of  Spain  ? 
Comes  the  Myth  back,  Madonna,  in  thy  smile? 

Yea !  thou  dost  teach  that  the  Divine  may  be 
The  same,  to  passing  creeds  and  ages  given ; 
And  how  the  Greek  hath  dreamed,  or  churchman 
striven, 

What  reck  we,  who  with  eyes  tear-blinded  see 
Thee  standing  loveliest  in  the  open  heaven?  — 

Ave  Maria !  onlv  heaven  and  thee ! 


A    GOLDEN  WEDDING    POEM 

Read  at  the  Golden  Wedding  Anniversary  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
James  Goold,  of  Albany,  N.  Y. 

0,  LOVE,  whose  patient  pilgrim  feet 

Life's  longest  path  have  trod, 
Whose  ministry  hath  symbolled  s\veet 

The  dearer  love  of  God, — 
The  sacred  myrtle  wreathes  again 

Thine  altar  as  of  old ; 
And  what  was  green  writh  summer,  then, 

Is  mellowed,  now,  to  gold. 

163 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Not  now,  as  then,  the  Future's  face 

Is  flushed  with  Fancy's  light, 
But  Memory,  with  a  milder  grace, 

Shall  rule  the  feast  to-night. 
Blest  was  the  sun  of  joy  that  shone, 

Nor  less  the  blinding  shower,  — 
The  bud  of  fifty  years  agone 

Is  love's  perfected  flower ! 

0,  Memory,  ope  thy  mystic  door ; 

0,  dream  of  youth,  return ; 
And  let  the  lights  that  gleamed  of  yore 

Beside  this  altar  burn ! 
The  past  is  plain ;  't  was  love  designed 

E'en  sorrow's  iron  chain, 
And  mercy's  shining  thread  has  twined 

With  the  dark  warp  of  pain. 

So  be  it  still.    0,  Thou  who  hast 

That  younger  bridal  blest, 
Till  the  May-morn  of  love  has  passed 

To  evening's  golden  west, — 
Come  to  this  later  Cana,  Lord, 

And,  at  Thy  touch  divine, 
The  water  of  that  earlier  board 

To-night  shall  turn  to  wine. 


164 


DAVID    GRAY 

REST 

ONCE  more,  blessed  valley,  I  seek  and  have  found 

thee; 

Tired,  hunted,  I  ran,  with  the  mad  world  hal 
looing; 

I  slipped  to  thy  shade  — I  am  safe  from  pursu 
ing— 
No  care  climbeth  over  the  green  walls  that  bound 

thee. 
In  the  hush  of  thy  woodlands  that  draw  me  and 

woo  me, 
By  the  rush  of  thy  waters  whose  thunders  thrill 

through  me, 

In  deep  hemlock  cover,  in  vine-trellised  arbor, 
My  heart  finds  once  more  a  blest  haven  and 

harbor. 
But  the  summers  are  many,  the  years  have  flown 

fleetly, 
Since    first   we   came   hither   with   revel    and 

laughter. 

Ah,  how  easy  the  jest,  then,  the  mirth  follow 
ing  after, 

The   poem   to   praise   thee,    the   song   that   ran 
sweetly. 

It  was  joy,  then,  that  met  us  by  greenwood  and 

meadow ; 
It  is  rest,  now,  rest  only,  we  crave  in  thy  shadow. 

Glen  Iris,  1877. 

165 


POETS   AND   POETRY    OF   BUFFALO 


ANNIE  R.  ANNAN 

(MRS.  WILLIAM  H.  GLENNY) 

SALUTATORY 
Read  at  the  Twenty-fifth  Anniversary  of  the  Buffalo  Seminary,  June,  1876. 

HAST  thou  a  welcome,  mother-shore, 
For  us,  sea-farers,  who  once  more 
Into  thy  arms  are  backward  blown,— 
Thy  children  who  have  not  outgrown 
The  need  of  refuge,  nor  outsailed 
The  love  of  the  kind  shore  that  hailed, 
With  prophecies  that  sank  to  prayer, 
Our  challenge  of  the  sea  and  air? 

Enfold  us,  while  the  hours  and  tides 

Forget  us,  and  the  keen  sun  rides, 

A  heedless  taskmaster,  his  round  — 

Enfold  us  until  we  have  found 

The  little  maids  we  used  to  be, 

Who  loved  not  books,  but  slipped  from  thee 

To  play  at  life,  as  sand  birds  trip 

At  the  sea's  edge  with  wings  that  dip 

The  waves,  and  with  sweet  folly  woo 
Their  vast  embrace,  as  if  they  knew 
Their  little  footfalls  gave  the  key 
To  that  large  music  of  the  sea. 
Bear  with  us,  mother,  till  we  find  — 
Our  foolish  child-selves  left  behind  — 
The  older  maids,  who,  scarce  more  wise, 
Gave  to  the  page  but  truant  eyes ; 

166 


ANNIE   R.   ANNAN 

Who  conned  their  books,  demure  and  grave, 
While  all  the  level  years  grew  brave 
With  rosy  lures.    How  ran  the  song 
We  used  to  sing  when  days  were  long? 
0  sunny  wave,  make  haste  to  call 
Us  seaward  from  this  tiresome  thrall ! 
0  laggard  sun,  do  not  delay 
To  light  us  to  a  freer  day ! 

More  kind  the  wave  that  now  restores 

Us  to  these  old  familiar  shores, 

Whence  we  may  see — upheld  in  arms, 

Like  children,  from  all  vague  alarms  — 

The  silver  marriage  of  the  sky 

And  sea,  and  it  may  chance  descry 

Those  far-off  headlands  on  whose  face 

Truth  shines,  though  mists  enwrap  their  base. 

The  wayfarer,  who  finds  the  hills 
That  circled  all  his  boyish  haunts 
Still  green,  half  dreams  that  they  advance 

To  meet  him,  while  the  air  distills 

Spent  odors  from  the  days  gone  by ; 
The  clover,  pines  —  he  knows  them  all, 
And  stops  to  guess  at  each  bird  call 

That  drops  from  out  the  friendly  sky. 

Like  gentle  leaders  of  the  blind, 

All  sounds  and  scents  conduct  him  back 
On  many  an  old  forgotten  track ; 

This  slender  wood-path  calls  to  mind 

167 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  generous  spring  that  held  to  him 
So  full  a  cup  for  all  his  draughts, 
And  how  all  day  the  quivering  shafts 

Of  sunshine  played  from  rim  to  rim. 

He  hurries  on,  a  boy  again ; 

The  years  are  but  as  idle  dreams, 

And  lads  like  him  it  well  beseems 
To  laugh  at  the  vain  cares  of  men. 
Is  that  a  partridge's  drum  he  hears  ? 

And  these  the  birches  straight,  white-limbed, 

That  shade  the  spring,  as  fully  brimmed 
With  crystal  as  in  by-gone  years ! 

He  stoops  to  see  the  ruddy  face 
That  answers  to  his  boyish  heart, 
But  lo !  that  image  has  small  part 

In  youthful  jollity  and  grace. 

Such  wayfarers  are  we  to-day, 

And  this  the  gracious  spring  we  knew, 
From  whose  full  source  we  hourly  drew 

Some  knowledge  of  our  untried  way. 

What  if  some  change  be  mirrored  there ! 

An  open  child-soul  for  a  guest 

Is  of  celestial  gifts  the  best ; 
Better  the  world  to  us  seem  fair 
Than  we  be  always  fair  to  it. 

Ah !  well,  the  old-time  groups  re-form 

And  hand  seeks  hand  with  pressure  warm 
And  friends  to  friends  again  are  knit ; 

168 


ANNIE   K.   ANNAN 

Not  all — for  some  who  had  one  dawn 
With  us,  departed  ere  the  sun 
Had  warmed  the  path  they  were  to  run. 

And  yet  they  seem  not  wholly  gone — 

A  violet  and  the  farthest  star 

Are  neighbors  in  a  wayside  pool, 
And  those  who  to  a  higher  school 

Have  passed,  are  not  withdrawn  so  far 
But  each  fair  face  by  death  endeared 
Is  here  with  ours  serenely  sphered. 


MAIDENHOOD 

WHAT  happy  star  shone  on  her  birth  ? 
What  grassy  corner  of  the  earth 
Grew  daisies  for  her  baby  feet 
To  dance  between,  since  they  repeat 
On  all  the  flowerless  ways  they  pass 
That  breezy  motion  of  the  grass  ? 

What  brook  bewitched  her  to  its  brink 
And  drew  her  fresh  lips  down  to  drink 
Its  music,  while  it  slipped  unseen 
Its  happy  cadences  between?  — 
So  sweet  and  glad  the  voice  that  slips 
From  ambush  of  her  maiden  lips. 

What  winds  upon  the  hills  gave  room 
To  her  and  buffeted  to  bloom 
Her  rounded  cheeks,  and  made  her  hair 
A  flying  sunshine  in  the  air? 

169 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

For  still,  like  sun-gleams  on  a  rose, 
Her  wayward  color  comes  and  goes. 

What  greybeard  tree  upon  the  down 
Caught,  as  she  sped,  her  floating  gown, 
And  whispered  through  his  ancient  girth 
The  long  dumb  sorrow  of  the  earth?  — 
For  the  sweet  pity  in  her  eyes 
Almost  their  gladness  overlies. 


DANDELION 

AT  dawn,  wrhen  England's  childish  tongue 

Lisped  happy  truths,  and  men  were  young, 

Her  Chaucer  with  a  gay  content 

Hummed  through  the  shining  grass,  scarce  bent 

By  poet's  foot,  and,  plucking,  set— 

All  lusty,  sunny,  dewy-wet — 

A  dandelion  in  his  verse, 

As  children  shut  gold  in  a  purse. 

At  noon,  when  harvest  colors  die 
On  the  pale  azure  of  the  sky, 
And  dreams  through  dozing  grasses  creep 
Of  winds  that  are  themselves  asleep, 
Rapt  Shelley  found  the  airy  ghost 
'Of  that  bright  flower  the  spring  loves  most, 
And  ere  one  silvery  ray  was  blown 
From  its  full  disc,  made  it  his  own. 

170 


ANNIE   R.  ANNAN 

Now  from  the  stubble  poets  glean 

Scant  flowers  of  thought :  the  Muse  would  wean 

Her  myriad  nurslings,  feeding  them 

On  petals  dropped  from  a  dry  stem. 

For  one  small  plumule,  still  adrift — 

The  wind-blown  dandelion's  gift  — 

The  field  once  blossomy  we  scour 

Where  the  old  poets  plucked  the  flower. 


AT  SUNSET 

WINDS  are  asleep — no  lightest  stir 
Of  ragged  leaf,  or  tiny  whirr 
Of  snowy  plumule  doth  betray 

Their  place  of  dreams ; 
The  troubled  currents  of  the  day 
Are  drifting  to  the  west  away 

In  noiseless  streams ; 

The  wind-ploughed  furrows  whitely  show 

Along  the  level  of  the  snow 

Whose  utmost  edge  melts  in  the  glow 

Of  sunset  fire ; 

A  thicket  of  black  branches  spread 
All  nakedly  against  the  red, 

And  like  a  spire 

The  pine  that  clears  the  crimson  bar 
With  slim  fixed  finger  from  afar 
Points  out  the  birthplace  of  a  star ; 
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POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

But  ere  its  birth, 

The  west,  like  a  great  field  in  flower, 
Recalls  her  bloom  for  one  warm  hour 

To  the  bare  earth. 

All  birds  that  skim  the  summer  skies 
Seem  present  to  my  wistful  eyes ; 
All  songs  that  stir  to  sweet  surprise 

The  solitudes, 

Renew  their  sweetness  note  by  note, 
Between  the  silences  there  float 

Faint  interludes. 

I  see  the  star  whose  herald  dim 

Still  clears  the  sky's  pale  yellow  rim  — 

The  steadfast  finger,  grown  more  slim, 

Wears  the  first  ray, 
But,  glad  to  merge,  like  John  of  old, 
The  prophet  in  the  star  foretold, 

He  fades  away. 

Old  outlines  from  the  vision  fade,  — 
The  sky  grows  paler  shade  by  shade ; 
As  a  full  rose,  wherein  are  laid 

Ripe  seeds  of  change, 
Drops  leaf  by  leaf  till  poor  and  bare 
The  stem  hangs  in  the  sleeping  air  — 

So,  sad  and  strange, 

A  kindred  trouble  works  decay,  — 
The  hour's  dear  splendors  fade  away 
While  all  its  graces  plead  delay. 
172 


ANNIE   R.  ANNAN 

It  is  the  night  — 

Birthtime  of  stars — no  breath  or  sound; 
Mists  climb  the  sky,  creep  on  the  ground, 

Yet  gleams  of  light 

Still  linger  to  prolong  a  mood 

That  might  some  summer  noon  be  wooed  — 

Of  fellowship  with  all  the  brood 

That  paired  and  built,  — 
Of  easy  commerce  with  small  lives 
Whose  humming  told  me  when  their  hives 

Were  honey-filled. 

Gay  joys  may  not  be  thine,  blest  Hour, 
But  darkness  clothes  thee  with  a  power ; 
The  night  hath  given  thee  a  dower 

Of  tender  thought, 

That  lightly  comes,  the  soul's  own  breath, 
And  hopes  that  outrun  life  and  death 

Are  thine  unsought. 

There  comes  a  night,  0  dear  and  true ! 

Along  the  path  that  we  pursue 

Its  shadow  drinks  the  morning  dew ; 

We  see  it  creep 

Across  the  living  bloom  we  tread, 
A  thing  too  fugitive  to  dread, 

And  yet  we  weep  — 

Light  tears  for  rainbow  uses  meet ; 
Half-fears,  that  quicken  failing  heat, 
And  prick  our  lazy  bliss  to  sweet 
Self-consciousness, 

173 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

That  else  might  sometimes  in  a.  trance, 
Too  prodigal  of  time  and  chance, 
Forget  to  bless ! 

If  in  mid-heaven  hung  our  sun, 

If  all  our  path  were  overrun 

With  flowers  that  missed  the  graces  won 

From  shadows  gray, 
Beloved,  thou  mightst  fail  to  keep 
My  feet  from  falling  on  the  steep 

And  dusty  way, 

Nor  always  guard  mine  eyes  from  tears. 
In  the  wide  margin  of  those  years 
Where  all  the  room  for  speech  appears 

That  love  doth  crave, 
The  silent  speech  of  hand  to  hand 
Might  be  less  dear,  in  that  strange  land 

That  had  no  grave. 


KECOMPENSE 

THE  summer  coaxed  me  to  be  glad, 
Entreating  with  the  primrose  hue 

Of  sunset  skies,  with  downward  calls 

From  viewless  larks  with  winds  that  blew 

The  red-topped  clover's  breath  abroad, 
And  told  the  mirth  of  water-falls ; 

In  vain !  my  heart  would  not  be  wooed 

From  the  December  of  its  mood. 

174 


ANNIE   R.  ANNAN 

But  on  a  day  of  wintry  skies 

A  withered  rose  slipped  from  my  book ; 
And  as  I  caught  its  faint  perfume 

The  soul  of  summer  straight  forsook 
The  little  tenement  it  loved, 

And  filled  the  world  with  song  and  bloom, 
Missed,  in  their  season,  by  my  sense ; 
So  found  my  heart  late  recompense. 


RYDAL    WATER 

DAY'S  farewell  breath,  scarce  ruffling  Winder  mere, 
Steals  on  to  die  among  the  reeds  that  bow 
To  their  slim  shadows ;  and  in  Rydal  now 

Yon  rosy  cloud,  un vexed,  may  see  a  clear, 

Still  vision  of  her  loveliness  appear. 

Calm  in  the  mellow  air  stands  Silver  How, 
The  sunshine  lingering  on  his  lifted  brow, 

Yet,  thinly  veiled,  a  star  is  throbbing  near. 

Sleep  on  now,  Rydal,  for  at  dawn  the  grass, 

Wind-stirred,  will  whisper  round  thy  Words 
worth's  Seat, — 

Stirred  by  the  wind,  but  never  more,  alas ! 
By  thy  true  lover's  once-familiar  feet. 

Nature,  thou  virgin  mother  breathed  upon 

By  God,  hast  thou  no  other  priestly  son? 


175 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

AN    AFTER-THOUGHT 


I  HEARD  a  song  so  sweet  and  rare, 
Its  tuneful  path  was  through  the  air, 
Its  death  the  echo  of  a  prayer. 

My  face  flamed  as  the  singer's  should, 

But  hers — rained  on  with  flowers,  she  stood 

As  one  who  mourns  a  half-won  good ; 

The  song  unsung  we  did  not  hear, 

Though  ever  to  her  inward  ear 

Its  prisoned  sweetness  grew  more  clear. 


ii. 

The  Poet  saw  through  reverent  eyes 
The  blissful  world  that  round  us  lies  — 
The  play  of  leaves  on  twilight  skies, 

The  quiver  of  a  swallow's  wings. 

So  knit  are  souls  of  thought  with  things, 

That  from  each  form  some  symbol  springs. 

And  when  from  pain  of  bliss  he  spoke, 
Such  sense  of  fairness  in  men  woke, 
They  called  him,  Poet  of  blind  folk ; 

But  that  rare  grace  which  nature  wore, 
Haunting  the  Poet  evermore, 
Diviner  utterance  doth  implore. 

176 


ANNIE   R.  ANNAN 
m. 

As  clouds  along  the  eastern  sky 
Lean  out  to  see  the  great  sun  die, 
And  turn  all  crimson  where  they  lie 

With  glory  that  he  casts  aside  — 

So  we,  by  nearness  glorified, 

Have  watched  a  white  soul,  as  it  died, 

Divest  itself  of  human  praise, 
Deplore  the  guilt  of  blameless  days, 
Bewail  the  stain  of  stainless  ways. 


IV. 


Oh  futile  strife  that  robs  of  rest, 

And  leaves  the  crowned  soul  unblessed, 

Since  still  a  better  mocks  its  best! 

The  bitter  thought  grew  sweet  in  me, 
As  though  an  angel  changed  its  key 
And  set  its  secret  music  free. 

My  Singer,  Poet,  and  Pure  Heart, 
Oh  grieve  not  where  you  sit  apart 
Because  an  ideal  mocks  your  art ; 

Earth's  failures  do  most  strongly  plead 
For  those  immortal  years  whose  need 
Has  worked  in  men  a  common  creed. 


177 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

FALL    WOOING 

LATE  wooer,  this  dead  rose  of  love  — 
Since  you  will  have  the  reason  — 

Had  heart  of  flame  and  fragrance  once, 
But  now  love's  out  of  season ; 

For  bee  and  breeze  fell  heir  to  sweets 

You  flouted  in  your  treason . 
So  pass  it  by  and  pluck  it  not, 

Since  love  is  out  of  season. 


A  NIGHT  OF  WINDS,   A   NIGHT  OF  CLOUDS 

A  NIGHT  of  winds,  a  night  of  clouds 

That  swarm  around  the  silver  moon  — 
A  blindfold  moon  that's  like  to  swoon 

With  a  black  band  across  her  face ; 
A  night  of  skirmishes  and  routs, 
Of  rampant  fears,  the  airy  scouts 

That,  drugged  with  sunshine,  sleep  by  day, 
But  with  the  dusk  swarm  from  their  lair, 
Bestride  the  winds  and  scour  the  air ; 

A  birth-night  of  strange  revelries. 

The  trees  by  turns  show  black  and  white, 
Like  clouds  in  baths  of  transient  light ; 

The  shadows  mask  familiar  things. 

Now,  swallow,  nesting  in  the  eaves, 
This  cannot  be  thy  voice  that  grieves,  — 
Now,  maple  at  the  window-pane, 

178 


ANNIE   R.  ANNAN 

In  all  the  music  of  thy  leaves 

Were  never  heard  such  words  as  these 

That  weirdly  grow  articulate : 
"Up,  and  away,  thou  little  Guest — 
All  winged  things  have  left  the  nest— 

Unhouse  thee,  soul,  and  try  thy  wings." 

The  little  guest  slips  from  her  house,  — 
Undrawn  its  curtains  and  its  bars,  — 
In  fantasy  below  the  stars, 

Above  the  earth,  she  voyages. 

She  sees  the  Church  —  a  blessed  sight, 
Each  cranny  full  of  silver  light ; 

Now  does  she  flit  within  the  ray 

Of  nursery  fires,  whose  fitful  gleams 
Fall  on  small  faces  bright  with  dreams ; 

Now,  drifting  over  fields  of  snow, 
Her  shadow  leaves  a  lighter  stain 
Than  a  white  cloud's  on  summer  grain. 

She  skirts  the  mystery  of  the  woods ; 
But  when  dawn  reddens  all  the  plain, 
She  hastens  to  her  home  again. 

Both  guest  and  housewife,  she  renews 
The  order  of  her  blithesome  days, 
And  draws  the  curtains,  mends  the  blaze. 

With  ancient  hospitality. 

Another  night  the  voice  will  call : 
"Empty  and  still  is  every  nest, 
The  moon  is  drifting  to  the  west, 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

No  wind,  or  wave,  or  cloud  knows  rest, — 
Come  thou  abroad,  thou  little  Guest." 

She  will  not  come  at  dawn  to  trim 
The  household  fire  already  dead, 
Or  draw  the  curtains  that  are  spread 

Across  the  windows  of  her  house. 


180 


WILLIAM   B.  WEIGHT 


WILLIAM  B.  WRIGHT 


BUT  when  these  frolic  matin  moods  had  ebbed 
They  sought  the  landscape  that  was  hung  serene 
Before  them,  a  Hesperian  scope  that  clomb 
Northward  from  champaign  unto  champaign  fair, 
In  slow  ascension,  till  the  silver  haze 
Languished  in  dreamy  distance ;  pastoral  types 
Of  lovely  contour,  melting  line  in  line, 
Bold  angles,  winding  mazes,  gentle  curves, 
Mild  slopes,  basking  in  the  rich  dividuous  Light, 
Thereon  unfolding  all  her  tissues  bright, 
Cashmeres  and  damasks,  lustrous  tyrians, 
Orange  and  auburn  and  deep  lazuli. 
And  over  all  were  sown  with  happy  art 
The  cultured  spaces,  orchat  valleys,  groves, 
Green  pastures,  sinuous  silvers,  sheets  of  glass, 
White  farmsteads,  gleaming  steeples,  smiling  vills ; 
And,  intercepted  by  the  jealous  cliff, 
Higher,  the  luminous  fragment  of  a  lake, 
Suspended  like  a  crescent ;  and  beyond, 
The  limit  and  blue-breasted  shore  of  all, 
A  ridge  of  mountain  propping  skies  that  sank 
From  weight  of  their  own  splendor;  azure  fields 
Wherein  the  thronging  fleeces  in  full  flock 
Pastured  at  leisure,  mimicked  underneath 
By  loitering  shadows  browsing  up  the  hills. 

181 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

FROM   "  HIGHLAND   RAMBLES  " 

WHEN  the  good  man  dies 

Nature  feels  the  drain ; 
Heights  and  depths  do  sympathize, 

Suns  and  planets  wane. 

When  the  good  man  dies 

Nations  feel  the  anguish ; 
Thrones  are  loosened,  tumults  rise, 

Hearts  of  heroes  languish. 

Who  shall  take  his  place  ? 

None,  for  none  is  equal. 
Nature  not  repeats  the  grace 

Through  her  endless  sequel. 

But  our  fates  abide, 

Goodly  spheres  as  any. 
Would'st  secure  thy  circle  ride, 

Be  but  one  in  many. 


THE   BROOK 

BRIEF  the  search  until  I  heard  him, 

Sweetest  truant  at  his  play ; 

Such  a  soul  of  laughter  stirred  him, 

Could  not  rest  by  night  or  day. 

Brief  the  search  until  I  found  him 

Gamboling,  crumpling  all  his  bed ; 

Woods  and  rocks,  that  loved  him,  round  him, 

182 


WILLIAM   B.  WRIGHT 

And  the  brakes  twined  overhead. 

As  I  came,  away  he  sped 

On  fleet  pearly  feet  of  lightning 

Just  behind  a  rosy  croft ; 

Flashing  thence  with  sudden  brightening, 

Tossed  his  baby  head  aloft, 

And  with  cries  of  merriment 

Down  the  sombre  forest  went. 

Opulent  is  childhood's  hour; 

?Tis  he  alone  can  give  with  grace, 

And  he  alone  can  ask  with  power. 

To  the  arch  menace  of  his  eye 

And  his  half-imperious  w^ays 

Old  Nature  can  no  thing  deny ; 

She  grants  him  all  he  claims  to  own ; 

But  the  dear  smiles  that  sometime  light  his  face, 

Bewitch  the  grandam  to  the  bone ; 

Straight  she   unlocks   her  chest   and  brings  her 

hoard, 

And  chooses  him  for  heir  of  all,  and  lord. 
And  best  it  suits  his  bounteous  heart  and  pleasure 
To  be  royal-lavish  in  his  measure. 
Upon  waste  and  fertile  place 
He  sows  the  largess  of  his  grace. 
He,  the  son  of  myriad  kings, 
He,  the  heir  of  countless  lands, 
Wide  his  goodly  treasure  flings 
To  whoso  asking  stands. 
But  for  his  generous  trust  in  her, 

183 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Nature  her  wayward  worshipper 

With  tenfold  measure  will  requite; 

Coins  his  harms  to  just  and  right; 

Reaps  from  his  dear  improvidence 

Harvests  of  large  experience ; 

Husbands  each  squandered  farthing  of  his  dower, 

And  brings  it  back,  changed  to  eternal  power. 

Along  the  eastern  border  gray 

The  night  holds  skirmish  with  the  dawn, 

And  that  strong  star,  whose  fearless  ray 

Closest  scouts  the  marching  Day, 

Has  slowly  from  his  watch  withdrawn, 

And  many  a  far-flung  crimson  spear 

Quivers  in  the  cloudlet's  breast, 

As  o'er  the  margin  of  the  sphere 

Lifts  the  Morn  his  haughty  crest ; 

And  wide  and  near  the  lazy  land 

Fumbles  with  slumber's  easy  band, 

While  drowsy  sounds  in  wood  and  field 

From  dreaming  throats  are  faintly  pealed. 

Starts  the  nigh-belated  swain, 

As  the  prying  ruddy  beam 

Cuts  the  tendrils  of  the  dream 

That  tightly  hugs  his  heavy  brain. 

The  smoke  climbs  upward  through  the  thatch, 

The  housewife  lifts  the  early  latch, 

And  standing  on  the  door-sill  sees 

The  thick  dews  winking  in  the  trees, 

What  time  the  flapping  chanticleer 

184 


WILLIAM   B.  WEIGHT 

Winds  afar  his  horn  of  cheer, 

And  every  bird  of  blithesome  note 

Fingers  light  his  woodland  oat ; 

And  the  herdsman's  whistle  shrill 

Stirs  the  laughter  of  the  hill, 

As  through  the  meadowy  mists  he  strides ; 

Issuing  from  whose  purple  tides 

Towards  the  grange  the  sleepy  kine 

Reluctant  trail  their  straggling  line, 

Whose  burthened  udders,  as  they  pass, 

Spill  their  rich  streams  on  the  grass ; 

And  swinging  light  in  either  hand 

The  cedarn  pail  with  well-scoured  band, 

The  maid  hies  briskly  down  the  lawn 

With  gathered  sleeve  and  skirt  updrawn, 

And  loose  braids  'scaping  from  her  hood, 

Carolling  in  her  matin  mood 

Some  silly  stave  too  weak  to  hear 

But  for  its  honest  heart  of  cheer ; 

Since  in  her  breast,  as  everywhere, 

Is  manifold  delight  to  spare. 

Anon  the  yoke's  laborious  beam 

Is  locked  upon  the  broad-necked  team, 

The  farm-lad  cracks  his  wanton  thong, 

The  huge  wain  lumbers  loud  along, 

Where  the  clustered  haycocks  steam 

In  the  morning's  simmering  beam, 

And  striding  heart-deep  in  the  math 

The  mower  lays  the  dewy  swath, 

Or  rings  with  bantering  rifle  clear 

185 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

A  challenge  to  his  stanch  compeer. 

And  everywhere  the  human  hand 

Reaches  for  its  proper  tool ; 

Since  those  whom  Nature  puts  to  school 

Learn  the  rough  eternal  rule, 

Who  best  can  work,  he  shall  command. 

The  year  moves  to  its  sad  decline, 

A  dull  gray  mist  enfolds  the  hills, 

The  flowers  are  dead,  the  thickets  pine, 

In  other  lands  the  swallow  trills ; 

For  since  they  stole  his  Summer  flute 

The  moping  Pan  sits  stark  and  mute; 

The  slow  hooves  of  the  feeding  kine 

Crack  the  herbage  as  they  pass ; 

The  apples  glimmer  in  the  grass, 

And  woods  are  yellowr,  woods  are  brow.n, 

The  vine  about  the  elm  is  red, 

Crow  and  hawk  fly  up  and  down, 

But  for  the  wood-thrush,  he  is  dead ; 

The  ox  forsakes  the  chilly  shadow, 

Only  the  cricket  haunts  the  meadow. 

The  feast  is  ending,  the  guests  are  going, 
In  bands  or  singly  they  quit  the  board ; 
The  torch  is  paling,  the  flutes  stop  blowing, 
The  meat  is  eaten,  the  wine  is  poured. 

Time,  the  tamer,  puts  his  bit 
In  the  strong  man's  mouth ; 

186 


WILLIAM   B.  WRIGHT 

His  hirelings  in  the  saddle  sit 
And  quell  the  blood  of  youth. 
Time,  the  herdsman,  turns  his  years 
To  pasture  on  his  vernal  cheek ; 
Ploughman,  through  his  feature  steers 
A  stealthy  share  in  grooves  oblique ; 
Reaper,  he  with  sickle  cleaves 
From  his  eyes  their  burning  sheaves ; 
WTith  flail  from  his  adventurous  heart 
He  threshes  all  the  bolder  part ; 
With  fan  he  winnows  from  his  lip 
The  airy  laugh,  the  winged  quip. 
Upon  his  brow  the  quill  of  care 
Begins  to  write  a  sober  page, 
And  through  its  raven  warp  his  hair 
Admits  the  hoary  woof  of  age. 

The  rumble  of  the  world's  loud  course 

Ebbs  from  his  inattentive  ear, 

The  wine  of  youth  has  spent  its  force 

And  leaves  his  spirit  clear. 

Now  solemn  themes  his  thought  employ, 

He  sits  on  Nature's  temple-stair, 

Walks  by  immortal  founts  of  joy 

And  haunts  the  tripod  of  sweet  prayer. 

Forebodings  bright  to  him  are  given, 

His  faith  burns  like  a  sun, 

And  up  the  shining  porch  of  heaven 

His  hopes  like  couriers  run. 

Upon  his  lips  ripe  Wisdom  lay's 

Her  purple  clusters  forth, 

187 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

His  words  are  fragrant  with  sweet  praise 
And  glad  with  holy  mirth ; 
And  life's  tumultuous  dithyramb 
Changes  to  an  eternal  psalm. 


LAW 

WHAT  knightly  port  of  man  draws  near, 

What  hero  carved  from  the  antique, 
What  child  of  battle  and  the  spear  ? 

Full-armed  he  rides  by  lawn  and  creek, 
Fenced,  breast  and  thigh,  in  glorious  scale, 

The  visor  dark  on  brow  and  cheek. 
0  creature  fashioned  to  prevail, 

What  errand,  what  ideal  quest, 
What  sainted  shrine,  what  holy  grael  ? 

Ever  his  lance  is  poised  in  rest, 
Ever  his  glances  search  afield, 

Ever  before  his  pillared  breast 
The  fulgent  orbit  of  his  shield 

Makes  splendor,  like  a  captive  sun ; 
And  on  it,  graved  in  ample  field, 

The  letters  of  his  motto  run, 
"  The  perfect  Law."    0  dauntless  heart ! 
Proud  goal  forever  never  won ! 

Behold  from  brake  and  glen  they  start, 
All  shapes  that  bear  the  name  of  foe ; 

Whatever  pierces  with  the  dart, 
Whatever  bends  afar  the  bow ; 

188 


WILLIAM  B.  WRIGHT 

And  monsters  of  the  middle  air 

Wheel  o'er  his  march  in  circle  slow, 
Or  sweep  on  thunder-plumes  to  tear. 

But  nothing  prospers  to  his  harm ; 
Midway  they  pause,  stung  with  despair. 

For  something  fateful  in  his  arm, 
Something  of  terror  on  his  plume 

Melts  with  the  breath  of  mad  alarm 
Their  order,  and  completes  their  doom. 

Like  mist  they  drift  in  wracks  of  flight, 
Swift  blasts  confound,  strange  fires  consume. 

Mayhap  he  stirs  himself  for  fight 
To  wipe  some  dark  plague  from  the  earth ; 

Who  sees  him  strike,  would  guess  the  might 
Of  every  god  in  heaven  went  forth. 

His  broadening  purpose  knows  no  bar ; 
A  sleepless  warrior  from  his  birth, 

From  bourn  to  sliding  bourn  afar 
He  rides,  of  lawless  enmity 

The  mock  and  mark  by  sun  or  star. 
He,  without  sorrow,  without  glee, 

And  mingling  not  with  love  or  hate, 
Knows  one  strong  word,  Necessity. 

Sure  hands  of  a  conclusive  Fate 
Work  out  to  men  through  sword  and  lance, 

Through  what  they  shatter,  what  create. 
Not  short  nor  over  nor  askance 

The  pith  of  his  endeavor  falls ; 
No  slip,  no  halt ;  his  steps  advance 

Through  what  seduces,  what  appalls; 

189 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Clear  in  the  counsel  of  his  mind, 

He  works  his  will,  whate'er  befalls. 
Him  yield  full  praise ;  ye  will  not  find 

His  equal  by  the  land  or  sea, 
And  yet  a  greater  than  his  kind, 

It  is  my  dream,  will  come  to  me, 

Larger  in  bearing  and  degree, 

And  of  diviner  race  than  he. 


LOVE 

THE  best  among  the  sons  of  men, 

God  led  up  hither  for  a  grace ; 
Such  luck,  I  guess,  comes  not  again. 

Unknown  his  name,  for  our  two  ways 
Had  never  crossed  since  time  began, 

Our  eyes  not  mixed  their  kindred  rays. 
Yet  had  I  spoken  with  this  man 

Ere  the  blue  firmament  was  spun, 
Or  the  first  star  his  circuit  ran. 

No  casque  nor  cuirass  on  him  shone, 
Nor  guise  of  any  martial  thing; 

His  foe  breathed  not  beneath  the  sun. 
All  natures  gave  him  welcoming, 

Yea,  warring  kings  ungirt  their  ire 
To  fetch  him  a  love-offering. 

The  omens  writ  in  signs  of  fire, 
The  thunders  of  an  angry  law, 

The  startings  of  half-crushed  desire 

190 


WILLIAM   B.  WRIGHT 

Raged  far  below  him ;  for  he  saw 

Beyond  the  knitted  brows  of  night, 
Where  meaner  spirits  fail  for  awe, 

That  ocean  of  serenest  light ; 
So  was  he  gladdened  as  a  child 

That  gambols  in  its  mother's  sight. 
The  sweetness  of  his  mien  beguiled 

All  things  to  yield  him  of  their  best ; 
From  hideous  forms,  from  brute  and  wild 

He  drew  by  charms  the  holiest, 
The  fairest.    Fate's  most  rude  intent 

Fell  like  a  rose  upon  his  breast. 
Ah !  unto  him  the  gods  had  lent 

Power  so  sure,  repose  so  even, 
He  never  sighed  nor  toiled  nor  bent. 

Albeit  all  he  asked  was  given, 
No  sign  he  made,  he  shaped  no  vow, 

Nor  seemed  at  all  to  crave  of  Heaven. 
But  as  the  plume  above  the  brow 

Of  some  divinely  tempered  knight 
Cheerily  dances  whether  he  go 

To  mix  with  pastime  or  with  fight, 
His  deed,  that  stayed  a  lapsing  race 

And  sowed  the  dreary  wastes  with  light, 
Seemed  a  slight  symbol  of  his  grace, 

Hovered  about  him  airily, 
And  could  not  flatter  from  his  face 

The  lofty  dear  simplicity ; 
Yet  all  his  speech  was  tuned  thereby 
Unto  a  deeper  melody, 

191 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  all  the  glances  of  his  eye 

Lined  with  a  finer  majesty. 
Once  more,  yet  once  before  I  die, 

Ye  gracious  years,  lead  him  to  me 
Or  me  to  him,  that  Life  may  know 

The  grandeur  of  her  ministry ; 
Till  her  frore  fountains  break  and  flow 
Down  from  these  polar  crests  of  snow 
To  the  warm  Eden  spread  below. 


OPEN  HOUSE 

HOLD  open  house ;  dwell  not  apart ; 

Spread  forth  a  liberal  board,  and  keep 
A  world-wide  welcome  in  the  heart. 

To  entertain  the  gods  is  cheap ; 
They  come  in  dusty  rags,  and  crave 

A  little  bread,  a  little  sleep. 

Make  haste,  arise,  give  all  you  have ; 

The  beggar's  staff  to  Mercury's  rod 
Will  change,  the  wrinkles  of  the  knave 

To  the  bright  features  of  a  god, 
And  into  wings  of  fire  the  shoes 

With  which  his  homely  feet  are  shod. 

Borne  upon  every  wind,  the  Muse 
Beats  at  the  casements  of  the  bard 

With  freightage  of  melodious  news ; 
But  all  is  dark ;  he  keepeth  guard ; 

192 


WILLIAM   B.  WRIGHT 

She  cannot  find  a  chink  or  rent ; 
To  bless  the  overwise  is  hard. 

The  pallid  prisoner,  worn  and  bent, 

Through  scrolls  of  magic  peeps  and  pores, 

Handling  with  a  sublime  intent 
Forgotten  spells ;  lo,  at  his  doors 

The  spirit-feet  of  Ariel  wait 

Whom  he  laboriously  implores. 

Fling  wide,  0  fool,  the  grate,  the  gate, 
The  couriers  knock,  the  daemons  throng, 

Accept,  accept  the  bounteous  fate. 
Nay,  rather  let  me  suffer  wrrong 

Than  slight  the  meanest  elve  that  brings 
The  symbol  and  the  soul  of  Song. 

Bear  hence  the  mighty  harp  that  flings 

The  epic  thunder  from  its  strings, 

For  I  will  chant  rejected  things. 


THE   STRAYS 

THE  budding  maid,  not  half  a  flower, 

When  first  the  warbling  days  of  June 
Build  nests  about  the  household  bower, 

Loves  to  unlatch  her  little  shoon 
And  wade  and  paddle  in  the  grass 

From  matin  to  the  glare  of  noon. 
The  tickled  soles  in  frolic  pass 

Their  wronted  range ;  she  slips  along 

193 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

From  mead  to  mead,  a  truant  lass. 

Gliding,  she  purls,  a  brook  of  song, 
Tripping,  she  chirrs,  a  happy  dove, 

Dancing,  she  shouts,  a  bacchante  strong. 
Crowfoot  and  buttercup  for  love 

She  gathers,  but  the  fingers  fair, 
Though  bursting,  cannot  pluck  enough. 

She  thrusts  them,  blithesome,  in  her  hair 
Longwise  and  crosswise,  to  her  taste, 

And  since  her  hands  have  yet  to  spare, 
She  trims  her  bosom  and  her  waist ; 

Then  looping  up  in  graceful  fold 
Her  span  of  apron,  fills  in  haste 

Its  fairy  hollow  with  the  gold, 
And,  gazing  sadly  round  her,  sighs, 

Nigh  weeps,  because  it  will  not  hold 
All  the  bright  meadows  in  her  eyes. 

Anon  she  smiles,  in  thought  to  please 
Her  mother  with  a  dear  surprise, 

And  sitting,  plaits  upon  her  knees 
A  chaplet ;  round  it  throng  to  sip 

A  choir  of  splendor-drunken  bees. 
Eight  homeward  then  with  trill  and  skip 

She  gambols,  dangling  from  her  arm 
The  sweet  grace  of  her  workmanship ; 

And,  entering,  springs  with  kisses  warm, 
And  clambering  to  the  mother's  breast 

About  her  temples  girds  the  charm ; 
Who  lightly  chides  the  foolish  quest, 

The  truant  prank,  the  hoiden  play, 

194 


WILLIAM   B.  WRIGHT 

But  sits  for  secret  gladness  dressed 

In  those  poor  weeds  the  summer's  day. 
0  darling  maid !  —  And  shall  I  chide 

The  wayward  muse,  the  elfin  stray 
That  brings  from  brook-marge  and  hill-side 

Flower-foam  and  waifs  of  woodland  rhyme? 
Not  I :    be  not  the  grace  denied 

To  wanton  in  her  honeyed  prime, 
If  faintest  foretaste  but  abide 

Of  sober  thought  in  riper  time. 


195 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


ANNA  KATHARINE  GREEN 

(MRS.  CHARLES  ROHLFS.) 

RISIFl's    DAUGHTER 

Extracts. 

ZENO. 

MOST  fair ;  her  innocent  face 
Hath  that  sweet  look  which  comes  from  gentle 

thoughts, 

And  in  the  glance  of  her  large,  lucent  eye 
A  witchery  dwells  that  many  a  princely  dame 
Would  give  her  ancient  pedigree  to  add 
Unto  her  store  of  charms.    0  you  will  love  her 
When  you  shall  see  her. 

GIOVANNI. 

Think  you  so,  good  Zeno  ? 

A  heart  like  mine  springs  not  at  bliss  so  lightly. 
If  kindness  starts  unbidden  in  my  breast 
At  touch  of  her  soft  spirit,  it  is  all 
My  anxious  soul  dare  hope. 

Ah,  what  is  life ! 

'Tis  but  a  passing  touch  upon  the  world ; 
A  print  upon  the  beaches  of  the  earth 
Next  flowing  wave  will  wash  away ;  a  mark 
That  something  passed ;  a  shadow  on  a  wall, 
While  looking  for  the  substance,  shade  departs ; 
A  drop  from  the  vast  spirit-cloud  of  God 
That  rounds  upon  a  stock,  a  stone,  a  leaf, 
A  moment,  then  exhales  again  to  God. 

196 


ANNA   KATHAKINE   GREEN 

Oh,  I  had  hoped  the  heavens  had  turned  the  scale 
Against  that  hard  alternative.    But  fate 
Wills  not  to  man  both  fame  and  happiness ; 
He  who  would  rest  his  daring  foot  on  heights 
So  single  and  so  lofty,  ev'n  must  learn 
To  tread  his  own  heart  down. 

No,  no,  not  proud,  I  was  but  thinking,  father, 
How  base  a  thing  it  is  for  one  who  hoped 
To  walk  above  all  earthly  littleness, 
To  lead  a  trusting  woman  to  the  altar 
Just  for  the  gold  she  brings. 

It  is  music,  boy, 

Long  known  to  these  high  walls.    Let  it  sing  on, 
A  past  like  ours  commands  the  present's  patience. 

Those  who  have  lost  their  mothers  unbetimes, 
Oft  show  these  sad  lines  in  their  faces,  signior ; 
'Tis  nature's  mark  that  life's  most  precious  boon 
Hath  somehow  missed  them. 

Lady,  I  would  not  startle  your  sweet  soul 
Into  a  sudden  passion.    Not  the  wind 
But  the  soft  sunshine  best  constrains  the  bud 
To  ope  its  delicate  leaves.    Of  all  the  words 
Of  gentle  courtesy  and  deep  regard 
With  which  I  come  full  laden  to  your  side, 
I  will  but  proffer  one.    Accept  this,  dear, 
The  choicest  of  my  store,  the  rose  of  speech, 
The  sweet,  I  love  you,  which  has  been  the  gem 

197 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Of  every  language  since  the  first  fond  hour 

That  woman's  smile  became  a  good  man's  heaven. 


SUNRISE   FROM    THE   MOUNTAINS 

HUNG  thick  with  jets  of  burning  gold,  the  sky 

Crowns  with  its  glorious  dome  the  sleeping  earth, 

Illuminating  hill  and  vale.    O'erhead, 

The  nebulous  splendor  of  the  milky  way 

Stretches  afar;  while,  crowding  up  the  heavens, 

The  planets  worship  'fore  the  throne  of  God, 

Casting  their  crowns  of  gold  beneath  His  feet. 

It  is  a  scene  refulgent !  and  the  very  stars 

Tremble  above,  as  though  the  voice  divine 

Reverberated  through  the  dread  expanse. 

But  soft !  a  change ! 

A  timid  creeping  up  of  gray  in  east  — 

A  loss  of  stars  on  the  horizon's  verge  — 

Gray  fades  to  pearl  and  spreads  up  zenith  ward, 

The  while  a  wind  runs  low  from  hill  to  hill, 

As  if  to  stir  the  birds  awake,  rouse  up 

The  nodding  trees,  and  draw  off  silence  like 

A  garment  from  the  drowsy  earth.    The  heavens 

Are  full  of  points  of  light  that  go  and  come 

And  go,  and  leave  a  tender  ashy  sky. 

The  pearl  has  pushed  its  way  to  north  and  south, 

Save  where  a  line  spun  'tween  two  peaks  at  east, 

Gleams  like  a  cobweb  silvered  by  the  sun. 

It  grows  —  a  gilded  cable  binding  hill 

To  hill !    It  widens  to  a  dazzling  belt 

198 


ANNA   KATHARINE   GREEN 

Half  circling  earth,  then  stretches  up  on  high  — 

A  golden  cloth  laid  down  'fore  kingly  feet. 

Thus  spreads  the  light  upon  the  heavens  above, 

While  earth  hails  each  advancing  step,  and  lifts 

Clear  into  view  her  rich  empurpled  hills, 

To  keep  at  even  beauty  with  the  sky. 

The  neutral  tints  are  deeply  saffroned  now ; 

In  streaks,  auroral  beams  of  colored  light 

Shoot  up  and  play  about  the  long  straight  clouds 

And  flood  the  earth  in  seas  of  crimson.    Ah, 

A  thrill  of  light  in  serpentine,  quick  waves, 

A  stooping  of  the  eager  clouds,  and  lo, 

Majestic,  lordly,  blinding  bright,  the  sun 

Spans  the  horizon  with  its  rim  of  fire ! 


THROUGH  THE  TREES 

IF  I  had  known  whose  face  I'd  see 
Above  the  hedge,  beside  the  rose ; 

If  I  had  known  whose  voice  I'd  hear 

Make  music  where  the  wind-flower  blows,- 
I  had  not  come,  I  had  not  come. 

If  I  had  known  his  deep  "I  love" 
Could  make  her  face  so  fair  to  see ; 

If  I  had  known  her  shy  "  And  I " 

Could  make  him  stoop  so  tenderly,  — 
I  had  not  come,  I  had  not  come. 

But  what  knew  I?  the  summer  breeze 
Stopped  not  to  cry  "  Beware !  beware ! " 

199 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  vine- wreaths  drooping  from  the  trees 

Caught  not  my  sleeve  with  soft  "Take  care! " 
And  so  I  came,  and  so  I  came. 

The  roses  that  his  hands  have  plucked, 

Are  sweet  to  me,  are  death  to  me ; 
Between  them,  as  through  living  flames 

I  pass,  I  clutch  them,  crush  them,  see! 

The  bloom  for  her,  the  thorn  for  me. 

The  brooks  leap  up  with  many  a  song  — 
I  once  could  sing,  like  them  could  sing ; 

They  fall;  'tis  like  a  sigh  among 
A  world  of  joy  and  blossoming;  — 
Why  did  I  come  ?    Why  did  I  come  ? 

The  blue  sky  burns  like  altar  fires  — 
How  sweet  her  eyes  beneath  her  hair ! 

The  green  earth  lights  its  fragrant  pyres ; 
The  wild  birds  rise  and  flush  the  air ; 
God  looks  and  smiles,  earth  is  so  fair. 

But  ah !  'twixt  me  and  yon  bright  heaven, 
Two  bended  heads  pass  darkling  by ; 

And  loud  above  the  bird  and  brook 
I  hear  a  low  " I  love,"  "And  I" - 
And  hide  my  face.     Ah,  God !  Why  ?  Why  ? 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

AND  now  soft  night  hath  ta'en  her  seat  on  high, 
Outbreathing  balmy  peace  o'er  all  the  land ; 
200 


ANNA   KATHAEINE   GKEEN 

Silent  in  sleep  the  dimpled  meadows  lie 

Like  tired  children  soothed  by  mother's  hand. 
Throughout  the  valley  hums  the  zephyr  bland, 

Charming  the  roses  from  their  passionate  dreams, 

To  hear  the  wild  and  melancholy  streams 
Pulse  to  the  waving  of  its  mystic  wand ; 

While   large   and   low   leans    down   the   mellow 
moon, 

Whose  whitely  blazing  urn  doth  make  a  silver 
noon. 

But  hark !  what  heavenly  sound  is  this  that  now 

Steals  like  a  dream  adown  the  fragrant  vale, 
Or  like  a  thought  across  a  maiden's  brow, 

That  brings  a  lambent  flush  upon  the  pale? 

It  is  the  heart-song  of  the  nightingale, 
Which  yearns  forever  upward  in  a  mist 
Of  subtle  sadness,  clouding  all  who  list, 

With  softened  shadows  of  her  sacred  ail; 
And  now  so  purely  fills  the  silence  clear, 
Great  Nature  seems  to  hush  her  beating  heart  to 
hear. 


PREMONITIONS 

The  sweetest  hour  in  all  Love's  wondrous  story, 
When  Hope  first  whispers  of  the  coming  glory. 

A  SUDDEN  strange  unfolding 

In  the  cheerful  noontide  glare; 

A  sudden  passionate  heaving 
In  the  bosom  of  the  air. 
201 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  sense  of  something  coming, 

Mysterious  and  dread, 
The  lightning  for  its  crowning, 

The  thunder  for  its  tread. 

A  whisper  in  the  breezes 

One  has  not  heard  before ; 
A  longing  in  the  billow, 

A  yearning  in  the  shore. 

A  bubbling  up  of  life 

From  every  wayside  thing ; 

A  meaning  in  the  dip 

Of  even  a  swallow's  wing. 

A  fear  as  if  the  morrow 

Would  ope  some  hidden  portal ; 

A  joy  as  if  the  feet 

Stood  at  the  gate  immortal. 

An  angel  in  the  pathway 

To  every  common  goal, 
A  widening  of  the  outlook 

That  opens  on  the  soul. 

A  sound  of  song  at  midnight, 
A  mist  of  dreams  at  noon ; 

A  tear  upon  the  eyelash, 

The  lips'  smile  might  impugn. 

A  coming  back  of  childhood 

When  morning  suns  are  bright, 

To  find  yourself  a  woman 
Upon  your  knees  at  night. 
202 


RT.    REV.    A.    CLEVELAND    COXE 


RT.  REV.  A.  CLEVELAND  COXE 

(1865-1896) 

TO   MY  FATHER 

From  "Advent,  a  Mystery." 

FATHER,  as  he  of  old  who  reaped  the  field, 

The  first  young  sheaves  to  Him  did  dedicate 

Whose  bounty  gave  whate'er  the  glebe  did  yield, 
Whose  smile  the  pleasant  harvest  might  create  — 
So  I  to  thee  these  numbers  consecrate, 

Thou  who  didst  lead  to  Silo's  pearly  spring ; 
And  if  of  hours  well  saved  from  revels  late 

And  youthful  riot,  I  these  fruits  do  bring, 

Accept  my  early  vow,  nor  frown  on  what  I  sing. 

(1837) 


A     GROWING    KINGDOM 

OH,  where  are  kings  and  empires  now, 
Of  old  that  went  and  came  ? 

But,  Lord,  Thy  church  is  praying  yet, 
A  thousand  years  the  same. 

We  mark  her  goodly  battlements, 
And  her  foundations  strong : 

We  hear  within  the  solemn  voice 
Of  her  unending  song. 

203 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

For  not  like  kingdoms  of  the  world 

Thy  holy  church,  0  God ! 
Though  earthquake  shocks  are  threatening  her, 

And  tempests  are  abroad ;  — 

Unshaken  as  eternal  hills, 

Immovable  she  stands, 
A  mountain  that  shall  fill  the  earth, 

A  house  not  made  by  hands. 


THE   HEART  S   SONG 

IN  the  silent  midnight  watches, 

List — thy  bosom-door! 
How  it  knocketh,  knocketh,  knocketh, 

Knocketh  evermore ! 

Say  not  'tis  thy  pulses  beating ; 

'Tis  thy  heart  of  sin ; 
'Tis  thy  Saviour  knocks  and  crieth, 

Rise,  and  let  me  in ! 

Death  comes  down  with  reckless  footstep 

To  the  hall  and  hut. 
Think  you  Death  will  stand  a-knocking 

Where  the  door  is  shut  ? 

Jesus  waiteth  —  waiteth  —  waiteth ; 

But  thy  door  is  fast ! 
Grieved,  away  thy  Saviour  goeth ; 

Death  breaks  in  at  last. 

204 


KT.   REV.   A.   CLEVELAND    COXE 

Then  'tis  thine  to  stand— entreating 

Christ  to  let  thee  in ; 
At  the  gate  of  heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 

Nay,  alas!  thou  foolish  virgin, 

Hast  thou  then  forgot 
Jesus  waited  long  to  know  thee 

But  he  knows  thee  not ! 


WATCHWORDS 

WE  are  living,  we  are  dwelling 
In  a  grand  and  awful  time ; 

In  an  age,  on  ages  telling, 
To  be  living,  is  sublime. 

Hark !  the  waking  up  of  nations, 
Gog  and  Magog  to  the  fray, 

Hark !  what  soundeth  is  Creation's 
Groaning  for  its  latter  day. 

Will  ye  play,  then,  will  ye  dally 

With  your  music,  with  your  wine? 

Up !  it  is  Jehovah's  rally ! 

God's  own  arm  hath  need  of  thine. 

Hark !  the  onset !  wrill  ye  fold  your 
Faith-clad  arms  in  lazy  lock  ? 

Up,  oh  up,  thou  drowsy  soldier ! 
Worlds  are  charging  to  the  shock. 

205 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Worlds  are  charging,  heaven  beholding ! 

Thou  hast  but  an  hour  to  fight ; 
Now,  the  blazoned  cross  unfolding, 

On,  right  onward  for  the  right ! 

What!  still  hug  thy  dreamy  slumbers? 

'Tis  no  time  for  idling  play, 
Wreaths,  and  dance  and  poet-numbers ; 

Flout  them  !  we  must  work  to-day ! 

Fear  not !  spurn  the  worldling's  laughter ; 

Thine  ambition  trample  thou ! 
Thou  shalt  find  a  long  Hereafter 

To  be  more  than  tempts  thee  now. 

On !  let  all  the  soul  within  you 
For  the  truth's  sake  go  abroad ! 

Strike !  let  every  nerve  and  sinew 
Tell  on  ages,  tell  for  God ! 


IONA 

A  Memorial  of  St.  Columba. 

WE  gazed  on  Corryvrekin's  whirl, 

We  sailed  by  Jura's  shore, 
Where  sang  of  old  the  mermaid-girl 

Whose  shell  is  heard  no  more ; 
We  came  to  Fingal's  pillared  cave, 

That  minster  in  the  sea, 
And  sang— while  clapped  its  hands  the  wave, 

And  worshipped  even  as  we. 

206 


RT.    REV.    A.    CLEVELAND    COXE 

But  when  at  fair  lona's  bound 

We  leaped  upon  its  soil, 
I  felt  indeed  'twas  holy  ground, — 

Too  holy  for  such  spoil ; 
For  spoilers  came,  in  evil  day, 

Where  once  to  Christ  they  prayed ; 
Alas!  His  Body  — ta'en  away, 

We  know  not  where  'twas  laid. 

We  strode  above  those  ancient  graves, 

We  worshipped  by  that  Cross, 
And  where  their  snow-white  manes  the  waves 

Like  troops  of  chargers  toss, 
We  gazed  upon  the  distant  scene, 

And  thought  how  Columb  came 
To  kindle  here  the  Gospel's  sheen, 

And  preach  the  Saviour's  name. 

Came  where  the  rude  marauding  clan 

Enforced  him  to  an  isle ; 
Came  but  to  bless  and  not  to  ban, 

To  make  the  desert  smile. 
He  made  his  island  church  a  gem 

That  sparkled  in  the  night, 
Or  like  that  Star  of  Bethlehem, 

That  bathes  the  world  with  light. 

But  look !  this  isle  that  gems  the  deep  — 

One  glance  may  all  behold  — 
This  was  the  shelter  of  his  sheep, 

This  was  Columba's  fold. 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Bishops  were  gold  in  days  of  yore, 

For  golden  was  their  good, 
But  in  their  pastoral  hands  they  bore 

A  shepherd's  staff  of  wood. 

Here  elders  and  his  deacons  due 
'Neath  one  blest  roof  they  dwelt, 

And,  ere  the  bird  of  dawning  crew, 
They  rose  to  pray — and  knelt; 

Here,  watching  through  the  darker  hours, 
Vigil  and  fast  they  kept, 

Like  those,  once  hailed  by  heavenly  powers, 
While  Herod  drowsed  and  slept. 

Thus  gleaming  like  a  pharos  forth 

To  shed  of  Truth  the  flame, 
A  Patmos  of  the  frozen  North 

lona's  isle  became. 
The  isles  that  waited  for  God's  Law 

Mid  all  the  highlands  round, 
That  beacon  as  it  blazed,  they  saw, 

They  sought  the  Light  and  found. 

It  shone  upon  those  headlands  hoar 

That  crest  thy  coasts,  Argyle ; 
To  watchers  far  as  Mona's  shore, 

It  seemed  a  burning  pile ; 
To  peasants'  cots  and  fishers'  skiffs 

It  brightened  lands  and  seas ; 
From  Solway  to  Edina's  cliffs, 

And  southward  to  the  Tees. 


RT.   REV.   A.   CLEVELAND    COXE 

Nay  more!  for  when,  that  day  of  bliss, 

1  sought  Columba's  bay, 
Came  one,  as  from  the  wilderness, 

A  thousand  leagues  away ; 
A  bishop  of  Columba's  kin, 

As  primitive  as  he, 
Knelt,  pilgrim-like,  these  walls  within, 

The  saint  of  Tennessee. 

Thrilled  as  with  rapture  strange  and  wild, 

I  saw  him  worship  there; 
And  Otey,  like  a  little  child, 

Outpoured  his  soul  in  prayer. 
For  oh !  to  him  came  thoughts,  I  ween, 

Of  one  who  crossed  the  seas, 
And  brought  from  distant  Aberdeen 

Gifts  of  the  old  Culdees. 

Great  God,  how  marvellous  the  flame 

A  little  spark  may  light ! 
What  here  was  kindled  first — the  same 

Makes  far  Atlantis  bright : 
Not  Scotia's  clans,  nor  Umbria's  son 

Alone  that  beacon  blest, 
It  shines  to-day  o'er  Oregon 

And  glorifies  our  West. 

Columbia  from  Columba  claims 
More  than  great  Colon  brought, 

And  long  entwined  those  twins  of  names 
Shall  waken  grateful  thought  ; 

209 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  where  the  Cross  is  borne  afar 

To  California's  shore, 
Columba's  memory  like  a  star 

Shall  brighten  evermore. 


I  KNOW — I  KNOW  WHERE  THE  GREEN  LEAVES   GROW 

Extracts  from  Carol. 

My  Beloved  is  gone  down  into  His  garden,  to  the  beds  of  spices,  to  feed  in 
the  gardens  and  to  gather  lilies.—  Canticles. 

I  KNOW  —  I  know  where  the  green  leaves  grow, 

When  the  woods  without  are  bare ; 
Where  a  sweet  perfume  of  the  woodland's  bloom 

Is  afloat  on  the  winter  air ! 
When  tempest  strong  hath  howled  along, 

With  his  war-whoop  wild  and  loud, 
Till  the  broad  ribs  broke  of  the  forest  oak, 

And  his  crown  of  glory  bowed ; 
I  know — I  know  where  the  green  leaves  grow, 

Though  the  groves  without  are  bare, 
Where  the  branches  nod  of  the  trees  of  God, 

And  the  wild  vines  flourish  fair. 

I  know  —  I  know  where  blossoms  blow 

The  earliest  of  the  year ; 
Where  the  passion-flower,  with  a  mystic  power, 

Its  thorny  crown  doth  rear ; 
Where  crocus  breathes  and  fragrant  wreaths 

Like  a  censer  fill  the  gale ; 
Where  cow-slips  burst  to  beauty  first, 

And  the  lily  of  the  vale ; 
210 


RT.    REV.    A.    CLEVELAND    COXE 

And  snow-drops  white  and  pansies  bright 

As  Joseph's  colored  vest ; 
And  laurel-tod  from  the  woods  of  God, 

Where  the  wild-bird  builds  her  nest. 

I  know  —  I  know  where  the  waters  flow 

In  a  marble  font  and  nook, 
When  the  frosty  sprite  in  his  strange  delight 

Hath  fettered  the  brawling  brook, 
When  the  dancing  stream,  with  its  broken  gleam, 

Is  locked  in  its  rocky  bed ; 
And  the  sing-song  fret  of  the  rivulet 

Is  hush  as  the  melted  lead ; 
Oh,  then  I  know  where  the  waters  flow 

As  fresh  as  the  spring-time  flood, 
When  the  spongy  sod  of  the  fields  of  God 

And  the  hedges  are  all  in  bud. 

I  know — I  know  no  place  below, 

Like  the  home  I  fear  and  love ; 
Like  the  stilly  spot  where  the  world  is  not 

But  the  nest  of  the  Holy  Dove. 
For  there  broods  He  mid  every  tree 

That  grows  at  the  Christmas-tide, 
And  there,  all  year,  o'er  the  font  so  clear, 

His  hovering  wings  abide! 
And  so,  I  know  no  place  below 

So  meet  for  the  bard's  true  lay, 
As  the  alleys  broad  of  the  Church  of  God, 

Where  Nature  is  green  for  aye. 

211 


POETS   AND   POETRY    OF   BUFFALO 


ARTHUR  W.  AUSTIN 

PALLAS   ON  HELICON 

FROM  aiding  Perseus  in  the  war, 

Through  dangers  braved  and  triumphs  won, 
Pallas  with  grandeur  greater  far 

Than  mortal  pomp  hath  ever  known  — 
Her  spear-point  gleaming  like  a  star  — 

Came  to  the  mount  of  Helicon. 

With  glory  meet,  and  armed  complete, 
What  went  she  up  the  mount  to  see  ? 

Not  Phoebus  yoke  his  chargers  fleet, 
And  rising,  gild  the  laughing  sea, — 

But  smiling  sweet  she  came  to  greet 
The  daughters  of  Mnemosyne. 

The  sacred  sister  deities 

Who  thrill  and  fire  each  minstrel's  breast, 
And  yield  their  own  sublimest  prize 

Confirmed  by  Time's  supreme  attest ! 
To  these  the  goddess  of  the  wise 

With  greeting  came,  a  worthy  guest. 

Past  Oread  haunts,  where  forms  of  grace 

Gleam  fairy-like,  and  disappear ; 
Past  groves,  where  lovers  of  the  chase 

Might  well  employ  the  hunting-spear — 
Up  to  the  Muses'  dwelling-place 

Came  she  whom  Athens  held  so  dear. 
212 


ARTHUR   W.   AUSTIN 

Among  their  bowers  a  wondrous  rill 
Gave  forth  low-lisping  melodies ; 

When  first  with  eager,  restless  will 
Winged  Pegasus  explored  the  skies, 

Descending  on  the  sacred  hill, 

Beneath  his  hoofs  these  waters  rise. 

Beside  the  spring  Athene  stood, 

And  brighter  hues  her  glories  take, 

While  all  the  queenly  sisterhood 
Before  her  due  obeisance  make ; 

A  welcome  then,  in  reverent  mood, 
The  Muse  of  stars,  Urania,  spake. 

Not  lacking  cheer,  nor  mutely  cold, 

Remained  the  bright,  illustrious  throng, 

But  radiant  with  Apollo's  gold, 

High  honors  to  their  guest  prolong, 

And  all  for  her,  with  power  untold, 

Revealed  the  matchless  charm  of  song. 

To  render  vain  earth's  sweetest  strain, 
Thalia's  voice  might  well  aspire, 

That  full  accordance  could  maintain 
With  proud  Euterpe's  notes  of  fire, 

And  lofty  Clio's  calm  refrain, 

And  hers  who  swayed  the  tragic  lyre. 

Then  one,  the  chiefest,  most  divine, 
Thrilled  on  her  harp  of  epic  tone, 

And  sang,  till  o'er  the  sun's  decline, 
Hesper,  the  faithful  herald,  shone;  — 

213 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Thus  Pallas  met  the  tuneful  nine 
Upon  the  mount  of  Helicon. 

0,  sacred  ones,  there  tarry  ye ! 

Nor  may  the  storm-clouds  o'er  ye  roll ; 
But  throned  forever  may  ye  be 

On  that  supreme  ideal  goal,  — 
There  hold  the  unswerving  fealty 

And  love  of  every  poet-soul ! 


SCIENCE    AND    POETRY 

Inscribed  to  Mr.  David  Gray  after  hearing  his  lecture  on  the  subject. 

THE  Muse,  her  future  life  and  ministry ; 

This  was  the  argument,  and  well  he  taught  — 
In  glowing  speech  expressing  noble  thought  — 

The  true  conditions  of  the  harmony, 

Which  is  not  yet,  but  which  shall  surely  be 
By  Song  and  Science  mutually  sought ; 
Nor  sought  in  vain,  but  found,  and  richly  fraught 
With  strength  to  both,  and  glorious  augury. 

Then  shall  the  halo  of  the  deathless  Muse 
Make  Science  beautiful,  its  triumphs  grand, 
Illume  with  hues  she  only  can  command ; 

This  is  the  faith  he  taught,  and  bade  us  choose ; 
A  faith  which  shines  now  like  the  lonely  light 
Set  in  the  shrine  at  night,  on  desolate  ^Etna's 
height ! 

214 


ARTHUR   W.   AUSTIN 

THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIGHT 

Pan- American  Exposition,  1901. 
"When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night."— Browning. 

CREATED  by  Niagara's  surge  and  roll, 

This  mystic  force,  this  silent,  radiant  power, 

Encircles  dome  and  spire,  scales  the  high  tower, 

And  leaps  in  triumph  to  its  utmost  goal. 

So  seeming  free,  yet  held  in  sure  control, 

It  pours  down  richest  rays  in  shower  on  shower, 

And  to  some  far-off  dream-realm  charms  the  soul, 

Above  the  earth,  beyond  the  passing  hour. 

By  skill  of  artist,  sculptor,  architect, 

Our  magic  City  of  the  Rainbow  stands, 

In  beauty  day  and  night  without  defect. 

We  praise  them  all,  with  grateful  pride  requite 

The  minds  that  planned,  the  thaumaturgic  hands 

That  wrought  this  lofty,  lovely  marvel  of  light ! 


I  REJOICE,  0,  beloved  of  my  heart, 

That  you  are  a  music-lover, 
Nor  fail  in  the  glorious  art 

New  beauties  and  charms  to  discover ; 
For  thus  may  our  spirits  combine 

In  the  love  of  the  beautiful  truly,— 
I,  loving  the  rhythmical  line, 

You,  the  bar  of  sweet  music  as  duly; 

215 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

I,  loving  the  poet's  high  song, 

You,  a  song  set  to  musical  numbers ; 

I,  the  thoughts  that  to  poets  belong, 

You,  the  thought  music  wakes  from  its  slumbers. 

Yes,  with  each  loving  each,  we  remain 

True  lovers  of  infinite  beauty ; 
That  sonnet  of  Shakespeare  makes  plain 

The  rule  of  our  faith  and  our  duty ; 
For  Music  and  Poetry  sweet, 

Said  the  Master,  are  sister  and  brother ; 
His  words  as  our  creed  are  most  meet, 

You  loving  the  one,  I  the  other. 


TO  BISHOP  COXE 

On  the  Twentieth  Anniversary  of  his  Episcopate. 

"  Honor  and  reverence,  and  the  good  repute, 
That  follows  faithful  service  as  its  fruit, 
Be  unto  him  whom  we  to-day  salute." 

SERVANT  of  God,  who  through  a  score  of  years, 
Thy  great  commission  worthily  didst  fill, 
With  steadfast  zeal  to  do  thy  Master's  will, 

How  grand  to-day  thy  holy  work  appears ! 

And  we  rejoice  that  still  thy  presence  cheers 

And  guides  thy  flock,  and  that  we  hear  thee  still, 
Commending  what  is  good,  reproving  ill, 

With  God's  own  truth  dispelling  doubts  and  fears! 

216 


ARTHUK   W.    AUSTIN 

Long  may  it  be  before  thy  labors  end ; 

Long  may  thy  voice,  invoking  heavenly  grace, 
Be  heard  with  reverence  in  the  sacred  place ; 
And  to  the  last,  our  father,  teacher,  friend,— 
Keep  thou  the  love  thy  people  gladly  own, 
Till  God  shall  bid  thee  lay  thy  staff  and  burden 
down! 

BUFFALO,  January  3,  1885. 


DIE   TRAUMEREI 

THE  soul  of  Schumann,  wandering  in  a  maze 
Of  dreamful  reverie,  made  music  so 
Express  emotions  deep  which  all  may  know, 
When  memory  leads  the  mind  through  devious 

ways 

Of  joy  or  grief,  and  scenes  of  other  days  — 
Strange,  varied  pictures  of  the  long  ago,  — 
Glide  into  view,  now  rapidly,  now  slow, 
While  each  a  separate  influence  conveys. 
This  was  my  thought  when  first  my  listening  soul 
Heard    with    delight    the    "Traumerei's"    tender 

strain, 

And  still  its  wToridrous  melodies  remain, 
Holding  a  sure,  unchangeable  control. 
The  Traumerei !  tone-picture  of  a  dream  ! 
Drawn  with  a  skill  that  glorifies  the  theme ! 


217 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


MARY  E.  BURTIS 


THANK   GOD 

THANK  God !  The  baby  Jesus  went  to  sleep 

On  Mary's  breast, 

And  when  she  sang  her  first  faint  lullaby 
The  morning  stars  hung  silent  in  the  sky, 
And  heaven  was  still,  and  angels  stooped  to  hear 
Her  sweet  voice,  singing  low  and  clear 

Her  babe  to  rest. 

Thank  God !  The  tired  Christ  found  repose 

As  Martha's  guest ; 

Outside  the  angels  stood  with  folded  wing, 
While  Mary  did  their  ministering ; 
Her  soft  cool  fingers  eased  the  pain 
Of  wearied  heart  and  throbbing  brain, 

And  gave  Him  rest. 

Thank  God !  Who  gavest  to  human  love 

Such  might  divine, 
Even  as  a  little  child's  caresses 
The  care-worn  father  soothes  and  blesses, 
So  her  weak  woman's  love  had  power 
In  that  cool,  quiet,  twilight  hour, 

To  rank  with  Thine. 

218 


MARY   E.    BURTIS 

Oh !  happy  women  of  that  olden  time 

And  happy  we  — 
Still  from  pathetic  baby  eyes 
The  Christ-child  looks  with  strange  surprise, 
And  for  every  sick,  tired  soul  we  cheer 
Still  ring  the  bells  of  God  out  clear, 

"  Ye  do  it  unto  me." 


GOOD    NIGHT 

GOOD  night,  beloved,  in  thy  low,  cold  bed 

Sleep  soft  and  sweet ; 

God's  strongest  angel  standeth  at  its  head, 
His  promises  are  planted  at  its  feet. 

Good  night,  beloved,  there's  no  need  to  say 

God  keep  thee,  any  more; 
He's  keeping  thee  until  the  dawning  day 
Shall  wake  us  both  on  the  eternal  shore. 

Good  night,  beloved,  in  God's  love  and  thine 

My  heart  rests  sure ; 

All  living  love  may  change,  or  know  decline, 
But  like  His  mercy,  thine  shall  aye  endure. 


219 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


LINDA  DsK.  FULTON 

SONG  OF   FREEDOM 
Buffalo  Chapter  Daughters  of  the  American  Revolution. 

0  CHILDREN  of  a  western  land,  far  from  the  pomp 

of  court  or  king, 
Inheritors  of  Freedom,  let  shouts  on  all  sides  ring! 

Protect  and  guard  thy  country's  fate, 

And  vigil  keep  o'er  open  gate. 

Defend  this  heritage  of  thine,  won  by  the  blood  of 
gallant  sires, 

From  subtle  foe  without,  or  strife's  internal  fires. 
Protect  and  guard  that  banner  bright, 
With  Freemen's  sword  and  Freemen's  might. 

Until  from  north  to  distant  south,  from  eastern 

shore  to  western  plain, 
From  every  grateful  heart  shall  swell  the  glad 

refrain, 

Protect  and  guard  from  age  to  age 
With  Freemen's  sword  thine  heritage. 

Then  when  this  earthly  race  is  run,  and  Heaven 

disclosed  to  eager  view, 

The  guerdon  bravely  won  by  loyal  hearts  and  true, 
Protect  and  keep  us  safe  with  Thee, 
0  Lord,  throughout  eternity. 
220 


LINDA   DEK.  FULTON 

PERHAPS 

MOST  men   dread   death,  that  dark,  mysterious 

thing 

We  know  full  well  must  come  to  one  and  all, 
And  though  the  day  seems  distant,  still  we  cling 
To  life,  and  shun  the  mention  of  the  bier  and 
pall. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  if  we  could  lift  the  veil 

That  screens  our  eyes  from  visions  sweet  and 

fair, 
Our  daily  task  would  heavy  seem,  and  we  would 

fail 
To  fight  life's  battles,  so  fain  would  we  be  there. 

This  may  be  why  the  future  life  is  hid 

From  mortal  eyes,  for  we  are  needed  here. 

Our  duties  lie  around  us,  and  amid 

This  turmoil,  we  must  do  our  best, — nor  fear. 


221 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


JOSIAH  LETCHWORTH 


THE   NEW  COMMAND 

THIS  new  command  I  give  to  you, 
Henceforth,  "love  one  another," 

Kind  thoughts,  good  will,  to  all  are  due 
Esteem  each  man  your  brother. 

The  ever  chilling  blast  of  strife 
Stamps  care  on  human  faces, 

But  gentleness,  like  words  of  life, 
Distils  its  own  sweet  graces. 

And  gifts  bf  grace  are  hard  to  win, 
Nor  come  they  for  the  asking— 

So  easy  are  the  paths  of  sin, 
So  manifold  their  masking. 

We  need  to  rest  ourselves  on  Him 

Who  knows  no  wrong  nor  weakness, 

Whose  watchful  eyes  grow  never  dim, 
Whose  face  is  love  and  meekness. 

Forever  sitting  at  His  feet, 

We  learn  His  wondrous  teaching — 
His  ever  gracious  words  we  greet, 

And  bow  in  love  beseeching. 


JOSIAH    LETCHWORTH 

GLEN  IRIS 

NATURE  here  with  silent  musings 
Fills  my  inmost  spirit's  need, 

Draws  me  from  my  self-accusings, 
Nerves  me  on  to  nobler  deed. 

By  her  charm  at  first  she  won  me  — 
Who  can  half  her  wonders  tell?  — 

Won  me  by  her  mystic  beauty, 
By  her  soothing  sylvan  spell. 

Golden  sunsets,  treasures  priceless, 
Perfumes  from  earth's  altars  blown, 

Was  there  ever  king  or  princess 

Unto  whom  such  wealth  was  shown? 

Here  hath  God  Himself  engraven 
Words  of  peace  that  still  our  fears ; 

And  within  this  circling  haven 

Breathes  "the  music  of  the  spheres." 

0,  thou  vale  of  chastened  beauty, 
Safe  retreat  from  worldly  care ! 

Where  so  oft  inspired  to  duty, 

I  have  breathed  thy  fragrant  air ;  — 

In  thy  midst,  0  fair  Creation ! 

Soul  entranced  and  fancy  wild, 
Here  in  silent  meditation 

Would  I  seat  myself,  a  child. 


223 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


M.  J.  KITTINGER 


ANNA,  and  May,  and  Fannie, 
Oat  in  "The  Circle"  at  play, 

Watching  the  bees  on  the  clover, 
And  as  restless  and  busy  as  they. 

Gathering  lap-fulls  of  posies, 

Only  to  scatter  them  there, 
Just  hear  the  peals  of  their  laughter 

Filling  the  clear  summer  air ! 

Could  we  but  paint  them  from  nature, 
With  faces  unclouded  and  true, 

Fannie  and  Anna  with  black  eyes, 
And  May  alone  with  blue ; 

How  we  would  value  the  picture, 
Just  as  they  look  to  us  now, 

Two  standing  out  in  the  sunshine, 
One  with  the  shade  on  her  brow. 

If  we  could  look  o'er  their  future 

We  would  see  shadows  and  tears,— 

Joy,  full  of  music  and  laughter, — 

Change,  with  the  swift  passing  years. 

224 


M.   J.    KITTINGER 

But  let  them  play  on  in  the  sunshine, 
The  shadow  will  come  by  and  by. 

Take  not  a  chord  from  the  music, 
Nor  dim  the  light  in  the  eye. 

Anna  and  May  and  Fannie, 
Out  in  "  The  Circle  "  to-day, 

Now  watching  the  birds  in  the  tree-tops, 
And  as  free  from  care  as  they. 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


JAMES  W.  BARKER 

KATIE   LEE  AND  WILLIE   GREY 

Two  brown  heads  with  tossing  curls, 
Red  lips  shutting  over  pearls, 
Bare  feet  white  and  wet  with  dew, 
Two  eyes  black  and  two  eyes  blue, 
Little  boy  and  girl  were  they  — 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 

They  were  standing  where  a  brook, 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 
Flashed  its  silver,  and  thick  ranks 
Of  green  willows  fringed  the  banks ; 
Half  in  thought  and  half  in  play, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey. 

They  had  cheeks  like  cherries  red, 
He  was  taller  —  most  a  head ; 
She,  with  arms  like  wreaths  of  snow, 
Swung  a  basket  to  and  fro, 
As  she  loitered,  half  in  play, 
Chattering  to  Willie  Grey. 

"  Pretty  Katie,"  Willie  said, 
And  there  came  a  dash  of  red 
Through  the  brownness  of  his  cheek, 

"  Boys  are  strong  and  girls  are  weak, 
And  I'll  carry,  so  I  will, 
Katie's  basket  up  the  hill." 


JAMES   W.    BARKER 

Katie  answered  in  a  laugh, 
"You  shall  carry  only  half" ; 

And  then,  tossing  back  her  curls, 
"Boys  are  weak  as  well  as  girls/7 

Do  you  think  that  Katie  guessed 

Half  the  wisdom  she  expressed  ? 

Men  are  only  boys  grown  tall, 
Hearts  don't  change  much  after  all, 
And  when,  long  years  from  that  day, 
Katie  Lee  and  Willie  Grey 
Stood  again  beside  the  brook, 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 

Is  it  strange  that  Willie  said, 
While  again  a  dash  of  red 
Crossed  the  brownness  of  his  cheek, 
"  I  am  strong,  but  you  are  weak, 
Life  is  but  a  slippery  steep, 
Hung  with  shadows  cold  and  deep ! 

"Will  you  trust  me,  Katie  dear? 
Walk  beside  me  without  fear  ? 
May  I  carry,  if  I  will, 
All  your  burdens  up  the  hill? " 
And  she  answered  with  a  laugh, 

"No  — but  you  may  carry  half." 

Close  beside  the  little  brook, 
Bending  like  a  shepherd's  crook, 
Washing  with  its  silver  hands, 
Late  and  early  at  the  sands, 

227 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Is  a  cottage,  where,  to-day, 
Katie  lives  with  Willie  Grey. 

In  the  porch  she  sits,  and  lo ! 
Swings  a  basket  to  and  fro, 
Vastly  different  from  the  one 
That  she  swung  in  years  agone — 
This  is  long,  and  deep,  and  wide, 
And  has  rockers  at  its  side ! 


JOSEPH   O'CONNOR 


JOSEPH  O'CONNOR 

THE   LAST  OF  HIS  RACE 

THOUGH  many  a  friend  of  mine  be  gone, 

And  squandered  many  a  pleasure, 
This  world  seems  fair  to  look  upon 

And  rich  with  varied  treasure : 
There's  honey's  scent,  and  taste  of  wine, 

And  landscape  tinted  mellow ; 
There's  many  a  summer  blossom  fine, 

And  fruit  of  autumn  yellow. 

For  youth's  sweet  sake,  I  trust  that  all 

Old  beauties  round  us  cluster ; 
For  me  the  rose  leaves  daily  fall, 

And  glories  lose  their  lustre. 
I  take  no  joy  in  deed  or  dream, 

Nor  care  for  night  or  morrow : 
But  like  a  lily  on  its  stream 

My  heart  rocks  in  its  sorrow. 

I've  gaily  rode  through  wheaten  fields 

Of  amber  stem  and  tassel ; 
I've  watched  the  sheen  of  ordered  shields; 

I've  spent  long  nights  in  wassail ; 
I've  felt  the  thrill  in  herald's  calls 

And  in  the  ring  of  lances ; 
And  harpers,  singing  in  old  halls, 

Have  wra.pt  me  into  trances ; 

229 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

I've  seen  the  palm  tree  wave  and  wail 

Within  a  crumbled  palace, 
And  ivy  over  altars  trail 

That  shrined  the  Holy  Chalice ; 
I've  known  the  joys  of  swaying  man ; 

I've  felt  the  love  of  woman ; 
I've  stood  by  friends  when  red  blood  ran  — 

And  never  shrank  from  foeman. 

But,  ah,  what  matter  that  I  ride 

Beside  my  monarch's  bridle, 
And  in  the  council  halls  decide, 

And  move,  the  soldier's  idol? 
You'll  sleep  the  same  when  you  lie  down 

Upon  your  earthen  pillow, 
Whether  you  win  a  laurel  crown 

Or  wear  a  wreath  of  willow ! 


HER    HANDS 

SOMETIMES  I  sit  and  try  to  trace, 

In  memory's  records  dim  and  faint, 
The  features  of  my  mother's  face, 
With  the  calm  look  of  gentle  grace 

That  marked  our  household's  quiet  saint. 

The  innocence  of  her  blue  eyes, 

The  winning  smile  about  her  lips, 
Child-simple  and  yet  woman-wise, 
Her  shining  hair,  her  modest  guise, 

All  come  in  turn ;  each  fades  and  slips. 


JOSEPH   O'CONNOR 

I  try  to  fix  them,  but  in  vain ; 

They  waver,  and  yet  will  not  fuse, 
Howe'er  imagination  strain 
To  form  the  face  that  it  would  feign  — 

Till  on  a  sudden,  as  I  muse, 

There  conies  a  thought  of  her  dear  hands, 
All  wrinkled,  tanned,  and  labor-worn  — 
And  there  the  simple  woman  stands, 
To  meet  her  duty's  hard  demands, 
Among  the  children  she  has  borne ! 

No  work  nor  written  word  remains, 

Nor  picture  worthy  to  approve ; 
But  reac  in  knotted  joints  and  veins, 
And  tendons  strong,  and  honest  stains, 
The  tale  of  service  and  of  love ! 

0  hands  of  ministry,  that  wrought 

In  constant  care,  through  weal  and  woe, 
Nor  rest  by  crib  or  coffin  caught, 
This  pang  is  mine — I  never  thought 
To  kiss  your  fingers  long  ago ! 


NEW  YEAR,  OLD   ERA 

THERE  is  no  magic  in  the  time, 
No  spell  in  New  Year's  merry  chime 
To  change  our  being,  fate,  or  clime. 

The  wintry  winds,  as  long  ago, 
Among  the  moaning  woods  will  blow 
The  ghostly  mists  of  wintry  snow ; 

231 


POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  Spring,  through  tears  of  showery  rain, 
Will  smile,  making  the  drift-bent  grain 
And  every  bud  and  blossom  fain ; 

The  Summer's  heat,  the  Summer's  calm, 
Will  brood  o'er  earth,  and  Summer's  balm 
Rise  like  the  incense  with  a  psalm ; 

At  touch  of  Autumn,  as  of  old, 

The  green  of  leaves  will  glow  to  gold, 

And  gleam  and  wither  and  grow  cold. 

There  will  be  loss,  there  will  be  gain, 
And  pleasure's  thrill,  and  pang  of  pain, 
And  thousands  born  and  thousands  slain ; 

There  will  be  woe  and  deep  delight, 
The  victor's  joy,  the  victim's  fright, 
The  blush  of  morn,  the  frown  of  night ; 

The  year  will  bring  the  lover's  bliss, 

The  dying  mother's  farewell  kiss, 

The  stock-dove's  coo,  the  serpent's  hiss ; 

The  strong  may  fall,  the  weak  may  rise, 
The  wicked  thrive  on  cunning  lies, 
The  good  go  down  in  sacrifice ; 

The  sun  will  shine  on  freemen's  glaives, 
It  cannot  shun  the  sight  of  slaves, 
Nor  help  but  nourish  grass  on  graves. 

Continued  change  for  constant  cause, 

Success  and  failure  under  laws ! 

We  are  not  blown  about  like  straws ; 

232 


JOSEPH   O'CONNOR 

What  comes  is  earned  as  well  as  meant ; 
Not  impulse  only,  but  intent 
And  effort  make  development. 


THE   FOUNT   OF  CASTALY 

I  WOULD  the  fount  of  Castaly 
Had  never  wet  my  lips ; 

For  woe  to  him  that  hastily 
Its  sacred  water  sips ! 

Apollo's  laurel  flourishes 
Above  that  stream  divine ; 

Its  secret  virtue  nourishes 
The  leaves  of  love  and  wine. 

No  naiad,  faun,  or  nereid 

Preserves  its  haunts  in  charge, 
Or  watches  o'er  the  myriad 

Of  flowers  about  its  marge; 

But  aye  around  the  caves  of  it 
The  muses  chant  their  spells, 

And  charm  the  very  waves  of  it, 
As  out  that  fountain  wells. 

Its  joyous  tide  leaps  crystally 
Up  'neath  the  crystal  moon, 

And  falling  ever  mistily 

The  sparkling  drops  keep  tune. 

233 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  wavelets  circle  gleamily, 

With  lilies  keeping  trysts ; 
Fair  emeralds  glisten  dreamily 

Below,  and  amethysts. 

Once  taste  that  fountain's  witchery 

On  old  Parnassus'  crown, 
And  to  this  world  of  treachery 

Ah,  never  more  come  down ! 

Your  joy  will  be  to  think  of  it, 
'T  will  ever  haunt  your  dreams ; 

You'll  thirst  again  to  drink  of  it 
Among  a  thousand  streams ! 


234 


EFFIE   DUNREITH   GLUCK 


EFFIE  DUNREITH  GLUCK 

(Mrs.  JAMES  FRASEB  GLUCK.) 
ALFONSO 

AWAY,  ye  haunting  shapes  — ambition,  pride 
Of  kingly  state,  plans  unfulfilled— that  cower 
With  gloomy  eyes  —  desire,  youth's  wayward 
flower, 

And  ruined  youth  itself,  of  hope  denied ! 

As  phantoms  of  the  night  ye,  mocking,  glide 
Before  my  fading  eyes  in  this  last  hour 
And  me  defy ;  nor  hath  my  sceptre  power 

To  bid  ye  go,  nor  stay  death's  rising  tide, 

Yet  go  ye  must !    For  memory  holds  the  day 
When  Love  alone  was  king,  and  life  grew  fair, 

And  cares  of  state  were  light  as  frosts  of  May, 
And  breath  of  violets  filled  the  happy  air. 

Ah,  Mercedes !    I  see  thee  smiling  there ; 

Death  grants  me  love,  earth's    anguish    slips 
away. 


POETS   AND    POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


ESTHER  C.  DAVENPORT 

THEN  AND  NOW 

LITTLE  feet,  restless  feet,  pattering  o'er  my  cottage 

floor,— 
Little  faces  fair  and  sweet,  peeping  in  at  the  open 

door; 

Little  voices  free  from  care 
Calling  "Mama"  everywhere- 
Calling  sometimes  all  in  vain, 
For  my  heart  was  filled  with  pain. 

Grieving  that  my  rooms  were  bare,  — 
That  no  jewels  decked  my  hair, 
That  my  garb  was  coarse  and  old, 
That  my  friends  seemed  growing  cold. 

And,  as  I  sat  and  brooded  o'er 

My  lack  of  wealth  and  lack  of  fame, 

Death  came  in  at  the  open  door 

And  called  my  darlings,  each  by  name. 

He  touched  my  girl  with  the  golden  head,  — 

And  quick  the  light  from  her  eye  had  fled, — 

My  boy  he  took  by  his  little  hand 

And  led  him  away  to  angel  land. 

Last  night  I  stood  in  palace  hall, 

And  fame  was  mine  and  jewels  rare ; 

But  wearily  I  turned  from  all 

To  long  for  my  babes  with  the  golden  hair. 

236 


ESTHER   C.    DAVENPORT 

My  fame  I  would  give  for  one  caress 
Of  the  little  hands  I  used  to  press 
Between  my  own,  so  brown  and  bare, 
That  now,  are  as  white  as  the  lilies  fair. 

Oh,  I  long  to  sit  at  the  cottage  door,    - 

And  watch  for  their  shadows  to  fall  on  the  floor, 

And  listen  once  more  to  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  their  gentle  voices,  calling  "Mama  "  again. 

But  the  past  is  past,  and  may  not  come  back,— 

And  life  must  be  lived  whatever  its  lack, 

But  I  know  with  anguish  that  I  turned  from  my 

sheaves, 
That  I  garnered  up  nothing  but  rustling  leaves. 


DOROTHY 

' '  DEAD  !  "  did  you  say  ?    My  little  girl  ? 

Why,  life  for  her  had  only  just  begun ; 
She  was  my  priceless  Pearl,  — 

And  yet  you  bid  me  say,  "  His  will  be  done." 
And,  too,  you  bid  me  not  to  weep, 
And  tell  me  that  she  does  but  sleep  — 
When  she  lies  silent  on  her  bed 
And  everybody  saying,  "Dorothy  is  dead." 

Oh,  how  can  I  be  glad  at  morn, 

Missing  the  music  of  her  dear  voice ; 

That  has,  since  ever  she  was  born, 
Made  our  fond  hearts  rejoice? 

237 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Or  when  the  hoar  draws  near 
That,  listening,  I  was  wont  to  hear 
Her  footsteps  coming  o'er  the  grass 
From  school,  how  can  I,  that  time,  pass? 

Yes !  Yes !  I  know  all  you  would  say, 

"That  whom  He  loveth  feels  the  rod."  — 

And  sometime  there  may  come  a  day  — 
When  grass  is  growing  on  the  sod 

'Neath  which  my  Dorothy  lies  asleep, 

When  even  I  may  cease  to  weep, 

But  until  then  —  ah !  until  then, — 

I  dwell  upon  what  might  have  been. 


238 


W.   H.   C.   HOSMER 


W.  H.  C.  HOSMER 

FUNEEAL  ODE 

Suggested  by  the  departure  of  Bishop  Timon. 

SERVANT  of  God !  well  done ! 
The  heavenly  palm-branch  and  the  crown  of  gold 

By  thee  were  nobly  won ; 
And  the  Good  Shepherd  to  his  starry  fold 

Hath  gathered  a  great  leader  of  the  flock, 

Faith-founded  on  the  Everlasting  Rock. 

The  chime  of  funeral  bells 
And  wailing  dirge-notes  for  the  sainted  dead 

Thrilled  to  their  inmost  cells 
The  stricken  Army  of  the  Cross  he  led, 

Until  an  angel,  through  the  darkness,  cried  — 

"  Good  Bishop,  lay  thy  rod  and  staff  aside ! " 

Away  with  useless  tears, 
Though  gone  another  planter  of  the  Vine — 
His  grave-couch  is  a  shrine, 

And  like  a  tropic  winter  were  the  years 
Of  his  majestical  and  calm  decline. 

Episcopal  authority  became 
One  who  could  temper  dignity  with  love, 
And  strove  to  find  his  rich  reward  above, 

Indifferent  to  the  dazzling  gauds  of  fame, 
Poor  mortal  praise  or  blame. 

239 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Meek  follower  of  a  Master  undefiled ! 

His  charity  o'erstepped  the  bounds  of  creed, 
And  artless  in  his  nature  as  a  child, 

His  lucid  thoughts  matured  to  holy  deed. 
Ah !  though  our  hearts  are  with  devotion  stirred 

By  melting  accents  from  his  tongue  no  more, 

While  the  blue  waves  of  Erie  kiss  the  shore 

His  honored  name  will  be  a  household  word ; 
Lips,  touched  with  fire,  are  mute, 

And  shades  of  night  are  on  his  coffin  thrown, 

But  seed  that  he  hath  sown 

Is  ripening  in  sad  hearts  to  precious  fruit. 

Oh !  not  unmeet  are  types  of  outward  woe, 
The  chanted  requiem,  and  imposing  rites, 
When,  one  by  one,  go  out  the  guiding  lights 

That  cheered  our  paths  below. 

In  sympathy  capricious  April  seems 

With  weeping  thousands  bitterly  bereaved; 
Flow  on  with  sadder  melody  the  streams, 

'And  wails  the  fitful  blast  like  one  who  grieved. 
Far  from  the  frost  that  kills, 

The  blight  that  withers  on  this  finite  shore, 
Gone  is  our  friend  to  summer  on  the  hills 

Of  God  fore  verm  ore. 

AVON,  April  23,  1867. 


240 


GRACE    BALFOUR 


GRACE  BALFOUR 

SIGNS  OF   SUMMER 

THE  tender  grass  has  grown  full  ankle  deep, 

And  o'er  this  fresh,  green  carpet  of  the  wold 

The  dandelions  gleam  like  flecks  of  gold ; 
While  from  their  downy  buds  and  winter  sleep 
The  pink-tipped  snows  of  apple  blossoms  peep, 

And  in  the  warm,  south  breeze   their   leaves 
unfold, 

Filling  with  odors  sweet  and  wealth  untold 
The  fragrant  winds  that  through  the  orchards 
creep. 

At  morn  and  eve,  the  woods  resound  with  song, 
As  birds  and  echo  join  their  voices  clear; 

All  through  the  sunny  day,  a  busy  throng, 
The  birds  flit  to  and  fro  with  loving  fear, 

Weaving  their  nests  of  twigs  so  safe  and  strong, 
And  all  the  air  is  glad,  for  summer's  near. 

GLEN  IRIS,  May,  1876. 


241 


POETS   AND    POETRY    OF   BUFFALO 


ELLEN  M.  FERRIS 

NARCISSUS 

HE  lay  reclining  on  a  fountain's  brink, 
Narcissus,  fairest  youth  of  mortal  mold ; 

Half-closed  his  radiant  eyes,  adown  his  neck 
Wide  rolled  his  hair  in  waves  of  living  gold ; 

The  earth  was  lapped  in  summer's  purple  haze, 
Enamored  zephyrs  kissed  his  ivory  brow, 

The  fountain  murmured  softly  in  his  ear, 
A  wild  bird  twittered  from  a  neighboring  bough ; 

All  summer  sights,  all  pleasant  summer  sounds 

Allured  him,  and  he  drank  in  their  delight, 
And  in  delicious  languors  steeped  his  soul, 

As   flowers  are  steeped  in  sunshine  hot  and 

bright — 
But  at  his  heart  eternal  longing  lay, 

A  longing  that  half  pleasure  was,  half  pain  ; 
A  dream  of  beauty  never  yet  fulfilled, 

A  dream  whose  substance  he  had  sought  in  vain. 

"  Why  did  the  gods  make  me  thus  beautiful, 

Why  give  me  this  sweet  sense  of  all  things  fair, 
Yet  place  me  lonely,  in  a  lonely  land 

With  no  dear  soul  my  happiness  to  share  ? 
"  For  oh !  it  is  a  blessedness  to  feel 

Myself  thus  beautiful  and  I  am  blest ; 
But  were  there  yet  some  fair  and  golden  head 
To  smooth  its  curls,  to  pillow  on  my  breast ; 

242 


ELLEN   M.    FERKIS 

"To  gather  kisses  from  its  vermeil  lips, 

To  answer  in  low  silver  speech  to  mine, 
To  read  soft  passion  in  its  tender  eyes, 
Oh !  then  were  life,  indeed,  a  thing  divine. 

"  Yet,  there  are  many  young  and  many  fair, 

And  some  who  love  me.  It  perchance  were  well 
If  I  could  win  some  fond  and  gentle  nymph 
And  in  sweet  peace  and  calm  affection  dwell. 

"  But  they  who  from  the  gods  have  godlike  gifts 

Seem  by  their  very  gifts  men  set  apart 
From  all  the  world ;  by  common  joys  and  griefs 
Untouched,  no  common  love  can  fill  the  heart. 

"  And  such  am  I,  and  thus  I  wait  and  watch 

For  her,  the  goddess  beautiful  and  bright, 
Who  shall  unlock  the  chambers  of  my  soul 
And  bring  its  secret  treasures  forth  to  light. 

"  I  feel  —  I  feel  the  appointed  hour  has  come, 

I  feel  —  I  feel  the  goddess  now  is  near; 
The  murmuring  fountain  seems  to  call  her  name. 
0  love,  my  beautiful !  appear!  appear!" 

And  gazing  down  into  the  crystal  pool 
What  face  is  this  smiles  up  into  his  own  ? 

Oh !  never  since  on  mortal's  favored  sight 
Hath  face  of  such  unearthly  fairness  shone. 

Half-parted  were  the  lips  of  vermeil  bloom, 
The  azure  eyes  of  amorous  passion  told; 

Adown  the  ivory  brow  and  polished  neck, 
Wide  rolled  the  hair  in  waves  of  living  gold. 

243 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Entranced  he  gazed  upon  the  pictured  face, 
Wildly  he  called  the  goddess,  but  in  vain. 

She  smiled  upon  him  with  soft  luring  eyes, 

She  smiled  and  smiled  but  answered  not  again, 

Unhappy  youth,  well  works  the  evil  charm, 
Who  loves  himself  too  well  shall  woe  betide. 

Thenceforth  none  knew  Narcissus  in  the  land, 
Bat  by  that  fatal  pool  he  pined  and  died. 


A    SLEIGH    RIDE 

LIGHTLY,  swiftly,  on  we  go 

Over  the  waste  of  glittering  snow, 

Above  the  sky  is  keenly  blue, 

The  stars  like  spear-points  piercing  through. 

The  air  is  crisp  and  clear  and  fine, 

Like  a  sparkling  draught  of  ice-cold  wine ; 

And  we  drink  it  in  with  youthful  zest 

With  tingling  lips  and  heaving  breast ; 

And  we  fling  abroad  to  the  listening  night 

Ripples  of  laughter  gay  and  bright, 

To  blend  with  the  chime  of  the  silver  bells 

Whose  fairy  music  sinks  and  swells, 

Keeping  time  with  the  steady  beat, 

On  the  frozen  crust,  of  our  horses'  feet. 

And  we  please  ourselves  with  fancies  wild 
As  visit  the  dreams  of  a  restless  child, 
When  traveler's  tales  have  fired  his  brain 
Till  in  slumber  he  wanders  o'er  land  and  main. 

244 


ELLEN   M.    FERRIS 

So  in  the  frozen  zone  we  seem 

To  float  along  in  a  waking  dream. 

Now  Lapland  reindeer  slim  and  fleet 

Bear  us  onward  with  flying  feet, 

Now  we  glide  over  wastes  of  Arctic  snow 

In  the  dog-drawn  sled  of  the  Esquimaux, 

While  above  the  sky  shines  ghostly  bright 

With  the  slanting  rays  of  the  Northern  light, 

And  all  the  scene  grows  weird  and  strange 

With  swift  phantasmagoric  change. 

On  and  on,  and  near  and  near 

A  city's  flashing  lights  appear. 

Its  broad  white  streets  before  us  lie, 

Its  slim  spires  pierce  the  far  blue  sky, 

And  the  night  and  snow  have  rounded  away 

All  the  hard  rude  outlines  of  the  day, 

Till  we  half  believe,  as  the  scene  we  scan, 

'Tis  the  wondrous  City  of  Genistan, 

A  clash  of  the  bells  and  we  stop  before 

A  stately  mansion's  arching  door, 

Up  the  marble  steps  through  the  entry  wide 

And  the  region  of  magic  is  left  outside. 

"  Home  again  ?  "   "  Are  you  cold?  "    "  0,  no,  'twas 
fun." 

"  Good  night,  sweet  dreams,  "but  the  dream  is  done. 


245 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

IRVING  BROWNE 

MAN'S  PILLOW 

A  BABY  lying  on  his  mother's  breast 
Draws  life  from  that  sweet  fount ; 

He  takes  his  rest, 

And  heaves  deep  sighs ; 

With  brooding  eyes 

Of  soft  content 

She  shelters  him  within  that  fragrant  nest, 
And  scarce  refrains  from  crushing  him 

With  tender  violence, 
His  rosebud  mouth,  each  rosy  limb 

Excite  such  joy  intense; 
Rocked  on  that  gentle  billow, 

She  sings  into  his  ear 
A  song  that  angels  stoop  to  hear. 
Blest  child  and  mother  doubly  blest ! 

Such  his  first  pillow. 

A  man  outwearied  with  the  world's  mad  race 
His  mother  seeks  again ; 
His  furrowed  face, 
His  tired  gray  head, 
His  heart  of  lead 
Resigned  he  yields ; 

She  covers  him  in  some  secluded  place, 
And  kindly  heals  the  earthy  scar 
Of  spade  with  snow  and  flowers, 

246 


IRVING    BROWNE 

While  glow  of  sun  and  gleam  of  star, 
And  murmuring  rush  of  showers, 

And  wind-obeying  willow 
Attend  his  unbroken  sleep ; 

In  this  repose  secure  and  deep, 
Forgotten  save  by  One,  he  leaves  no  trace. 

Such  his  last  pillow. 


MY  NEW  WORLD 

MY  prow  is  tending  toward  the  west : 

Old  voices  growing  faint,  dear  faces  dim, 
And  all  that  I  have  loved  the  best 

Far  back  upon  the  waste  of  memory  swim. 
My  old  world  disappears : 
Few  hopes  and  many  fears 
Accompany  me. 

But  from  the  distance  fair 

A  sound  of  birds,  a  glimpse  of  pleasant  skies, 
A  scent  of  fragrant  air, 
All  soothingly  arise 
In  cooing  voice,  sweet  breath  and  merry  eyes 

Of  grandson  on  my  knee. 
And  ere  my  sails  be  furled, 
Kind  Lord,  I  pray 
Thou  let  me  live  a  day 
In  my  new  world. 

247 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

A   PORTRAIT 

A  GENTLE  face  is  ever  in  my  room, 

With  features  fine  and  melancholy  eyes, 

Though  young,  a  little  past  life's  freshest  bloom, 
And  always  with  an  air  of  sad  surmise. 

A  great  white  cap  almost  conceals  her  hair, 

A  collar  broad  falls  o'er  her  shoulders  slender ; 

The  fashion  of  a  bygone  age  an  air 

Of  quaintness  to  her  simple  garb  doth  render. 

Those  hazel  eyes  pursue  me  as  I  move 

And  seem  to  watch  my  busy,  toiling  pen ; 

They  hold  me  with  an  a-nxious,  yearning  love, 
As  if  she  dwelt  upon  the  earth  again. 

My  mother's  portrait!  fifty  years  ago, 
When  I  was  but  a  heedless,  happy  boy, 

The  influence  of  her  being  ceased  to  flow, 
And  she  laid  down  life's  burden  and  its  joy. 

And  now  as  I  sit  pondering  o'er  my  book, 

So  vainly  seeking  a  receding  rest, 
I  read  the  wonder  in  her  steadfast  look ; 

"  Is  this  my  son  who  lay  upon  my  breast?  " 

And  when  for  me  there  is  an  end  of  time, 

And  this  unsatisfying  work  is  done, 
If  I  shall  meet  thee  in  thy  peaceful  clime, 

Young  mother,  wilt  thou  know  thy  gray-haired 
son? 

248 


IRVING    BROWNE 

CRADLE   SONG 

HASTE,  my  baby,  haste  arid  grow ! 
Wilt  thou  always  sleep  and  crow  ? 
Up  and  down  the  pleasant  land 
We  should  wander  hand  in  hand ; 
Leaning  on  thy  stalwart  arm 
Mother  thou  wilt  shield  from  harm, 

Life's  a  span, 

Baby-man ! 
Haste  thee,  little  man,  and  grow ! 

Baby,  do  not  haste  to  grow, 
For  thy  mother  loves  thee  so ! 
Lay  thy  little  head  a  space 
Closely  to  her  yearning  face ; 
Snugly  hid  within  her  arms 
She  shall  keep  thee  from  all  harms. 

Life's  a  span, 

Baby -man ! 
But  there's  time  enough  to  grow. 

When  thy  mother's  hair  is  gray, 
Turn  a  moment  from  thy  way, 
Let  her  tears  and  smiles  be  shed 
On  her  darling's  manly  head; 
Once  thy  mother's  chiefest  joy, 
Let  age  leave  thee  still  her  boy. 

Life's  a  span, 

Grown-up  man ! 
Time  will  bring  us  old  and  gray. 

249 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

THE  GIRL  HE   LEFT  BEHIND  HIM 

A  HOST  marched  through  a  bannered  street, 

Proudly,  proudly  to  the  war, 
But  one  looked  up,  his  love  to  greet, 

Sadly,  sadly  from  afar. 
She  pressed  her  heart  so  full  of  fears, 
She  threw  him  a  rose  all  wet  with  tears  — 

Oh !  life  is  but  a  span  — 
And  the  fifes  screamed  merrily  in  the  van, 

"The  girl  I  left  behind  me." 

The  host  lay  on  a  trampled  plain, 

Silently,  silently  there  they  lay, 
And  ever  the  deadly  battle-stain 

Redly,  redly  marked  the  clay. 
One  pressed  to  his  heart  a  pictured  face, 
And  fondly  kissed  the  pictured  grace— 

Oh !  life  is  but  a  span  — 
She  fades  from  the  sight  of  the  dying  man  — 

The  girl  he  left  behind  him. 


MY    SCHOOLMATE 

On  a  medallion  by  Erastus  Dow  Palmer. 

THE  snows  have  settled  on  my  head, 

But  not  upon  my  heart, 
And  incidents  of  years  long  fled, 

From  out  my  memory  start. 

250 


IRVING    BROWNE 

My  hand  is  cunning  to  contrive 

The  shapes  my  brain  invents, 
And  keep  in  marble  forms  alive 

That  which  the  soul  contents. 
And  I  have  wife,  and  children  tall, 

Grandchildren  cluster  near, 
And  sweet  the  applause  of  men  doth  fall 

On  my  undeafened  ear ; 
But  still  my  mind  will  backward  turn 

For  half  a  century, 
And  without  reasoning  will  yearn 

For  sight  or  news  of  thee, 
Thou  playmate  of  my  boyhood  days, 

When  life  was  all  aglow, 
When  the  sweetest  thing  was  thy  girlish  praise, 

As  I  drew  thee  o'er  the  snow 
To  the  old  red  school-house  by  the  road, 

Where  we  learned  to  spell  and  read, 
When  thou  wert  all  my  fairy  load, 

And  I  was  thy  prancing  steed ! 
Oh,  thou  wert  simple  then,  and  fair, 

Artless  and  unconstrained, 
With  quaintly  knotted  auburn  hair 

From  which  the  wind  refrained, 
And  from  thine  earnest,  steady  eyes 

Shone  out  a  nature  pure, 
Formed  by  kind  heaven,  a  man's  best  prize, 

To  love  and  to  endure ! 

Oh,  art  thou  still  in  life  and  time, 
Or  hast  thou  gone  before  ? 

251 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  hath  thy  lot  been  like  to  mine, 

Or  pinched  and  bare  and  sore  ? 
And  didst  thou  marry,  or  art  thou 

Still  of  the  spinster  tribe  ? 
Perchance  thou  art  a  widow  now, 

Steeled  against  second  bribe? 
Do  grandsons  round  thy  hearthstone  play  ? 

Or  dost  thou  end  thy  race? 
And  could  that  auburn  hair  grow  gray, 

And  wrinkles  line  thy  face  ? 
I  cannot  make  thee  old  nor  plain  — 

I  would  not  if  I  could  — 
But  I  recall  thee  without  stain, 

Simply  and  sweetly  good ; 
And  I  have  carved  thy  pretty  head, 

And  hung  it  on  my  wall, 
And  unto  all  men  be  it  said, 

I  like  it  best  of  all, 
For  on  a  far-off  snowy  road , 

Before  I  had  learned  to  read, 
Thou  wert  all  my  fairy  load, 

And  I  was  thy  prancing  steed ! 


SOLITAIRE 

I  LIKE  to  play  cards  with  a.  man  of  sense, 
And  allow  him  to  play  with  me ; 

And  so  it  has  grown  a  delight  intense 
To  play  solitaire  on  my  knee. 

252 


IRVING    BROWNE 

I  love  the  quaint  form  of  the  sceptered  king, 

The  simplicity  of  the  ace, 
The  stolid  knave  like  a  wooden  thing, 

And  her  majesty's  smirking  face. 

Diamonds,  aces,  and  clubs  and  spades  — 

Their  garb  of  respectable  black 
A  moiety  brilliant  of  red  invades, 

As  they  mingle  in  motley  pack. 

Independent  of  anyone's  signal  or  leave, 
Released  from  the  bluffing  of  poker, 

I've  no  apprehension  of  ace  up  a  sleeve, 
And  fear  no  superfluous  joker. 

I  build  up  and  down  all  the  cards  that  I  hold, 

And  the  game  is  always  fair, 
For  I  am  honest,  'and  so  is  my  old 

Companion  at  solitaire. 

Let  kings  condescend  to  the  lower  grades, 
Let  queens  shine  in  diamonds  rare, 

Let  knaves  flourish  clubs,  and  peasants  wield 

spades, 
But  give  me  my  solitaire. 


THE   VOICE  OF   THE   SHELL 

A  CARELESS  wanderer  on  the  beach, 
When  the  early  sky  is  clear — 

What  is  the  pink  shell's  murmuring  speech 
To  his  inquiring  ear  ? 

253 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Its  voice  is  only  Love ; 

Its  murmur  is  only  Love ; 
No  cloud  in  the  sky,  and  the  wind  is  sweet, 
And  with  joy  and  hope  his  pulses  beat ;  — 

Its  murmur  is  only  Love, 

Its  voice  sings  only  Love. 

At  noon,  when  the  sea  is  high, 

And  the  sun  is  fierce  and  hot, 
And  the  vision  of  morn  has  gone  by, 
And  the  clasp  of  Love  holds  not, 
The  shell  speaks  only  Fame, 
It  murmurs  only  Fame ; 
The  sky  is  fierce  with  a  desert  blast, 
And  the  promise  of  morn  on  the  wind  has 
passed ;  — 

The  shell  chants  only  Fame, 
Its  burden  is  only  Fame. 

At  night,  when  the  tide  is  low, 

And  the  heavens  are  overcast, 
And  the  pulses  of  life  beat  slow, 
What  is  the  message  at  last? 

It  whispers  only  Rest, 

It  has  no  word  but  Rest. 
A  star  shines  over  a  distant  hill, 
A  single  star,  and  the  wind  is  chill ;  — 

The  shell  whispers  only  Rest, 

Its  constant  hymn  is  Rest. 

Oh,  Love  of  the  morning  so  dim ! 
Oh,  elusive  Fame  of  the  noon ! 

254 


IRVING    BROWNE 

Oh,  prophecy  of  the  evening  hymn ! 
Will  ray  love  come  back  to  me  soon  ? 

But  the  shell  says  only  Rest, 

Its  single  whisper  is  Rest ! 
Can  I  gain  my  Love  once  more? 
My  love  and  my  faith  restore ! 

But  the  shell  still  whispers  Rest ! 

Its  final  murmur  is  Rest ! 


255 


POETS   AND    POETRY    OF    BUFFALO 
ALLEN  GILMAN  BIGELOW 

THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

DID  you  ever  meet  a  robber  with  a  pistol  and  a 

knife, 
Whose  prompt  and  cordial  greeting  was,  "your 

m  oney  or  yo  ur  life ' ' ; 
Who,  while  you  stood  a  trembling,  with    your 

hands  above  your  head, 
Took  your  gold,  most  grimly  offering  to  repay 

you  in  cold  lead  ? 

Well,  I  once  met  a  robber:  I  was  going  home 

to  tea. 
The  way  was  rather  lonely,  though  not  yet  too 

dark  to  see 
That  the  sturdy  rogue  who  stopped  me  there  was 

very  fully  armed  — 
But  I'm  honest  in  maintaining  that  I  didn't  feel 

alarmed. 

He  was  panting  hard  from  running,  so  I,  being 

still  undaunted, 
Very  boldly  faced  the  rascal  and  demanded  what 

he  wanted : 
I  was  quite  as  big  as  he  was,  and  I  was  not  out  of 

breath, 
So  I  did  not  fear  his  shooting  me,  or  stabbing  me 

to  death.  ' 

256 


ALLEN    OILMAN    BIGELOW 

In  answer  to  my  question  the  highwayman  raised 

an  arm 
And  pointed  it  straight  at  me — though  I  still  felt 

no  alarm ; 
He  did  not  ask  for  money,  but  what  he  said  was 

this: 
"You  cannot  pass,  Papa,  unless  you  give  your 

boy  a  kiss ! " 


DAVID   GRAY 

WHILE  on  the  anvil  of  his  life 
The  daily  blows  rang  full  and  strong, 
Forging  the  hot  iron  of  his  thought 

Into  the  plowshare  or  the  knife, 
Whatever  his  busy  hammer  wrought, 
His  wearying  toil,  or  short  or  long, 
He  lightened  with  a  song. 

Men  say  the  toiler's  task  is  done, 
And  soon  his  work  they  may  forget — 
A  rusted  share,  a  broken  blade, 

Cast  to  one  side  at  set  of  sun, 
All  that  is  left  of  what  he  made ; 
But,  now  the  sun  is  fully  set, 
His  singing  lingers  with  us  yet. 


257 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

THE    SPIRIT    OF    THE    BELLS 

HIGH  in  the  belfry  of  St.  Paul's 

A  strange,  weird  spirit  dwells 
Amid  the  ghostly  wheels  and  ropes,  — 

The  Spirit  of  the  Bells. 

As  often  as  the  bells  are  swung 

The  Spirit  loudly  sings ; 
Now  wild  and  sweet,  now  gay,  now  sad, 

His  changeful  music  rings. 

On  Sabbath  morn  the  Spirit's  voice 

Loud  o'er  the  city  peals, 
At  evening,  like  the  Angel  us 

His  silvery  summons  steals. 

The  wedding  of  two  loving  hearts 

The  Spirit  gladsome  tells, 
Pouring  a  shower  of  golden  notes 

From  great  and  little  bells. 

Anon,  with  solemn  tolling  tones, 

The  Spirit  slowly  knells 
The  parting  of  a  human  soul,  — 

And  sobs  amid  the  bells. 

On  glorious  Independence  Day 

With  patriotic  shout 
He  makes  a  joyous  clangor  as 

He  whirls  the  bells  about. 

Amid  the  perfume  of  the  flowers 
Which  Easter  morning  brings, 

258 


ALLEN    OILMAN    BIGELOW 

A  risen  and  triumphant  Lord 
The  Spirit  loudly  sings. 

Again,  beneath  the  wintry  moon 

The  Spirit's  voice  I  hear 
'Mid  flying  snow  and  flying  cloud, 

Proclaim  the  glad  New  Year. 

But  ah !  when  Christmas-tide  returns, — 
The  birth-night  of  our  Lord,— 

'T  would  seem  a  year's  glad  ringing  then 
Within  the  bells  is  stored. 

The  Spirit  holds  high  carnival 

Up  in  his  belfry  then ! 
And  "  Gloria  in  Excelsis"  sings, 

And  "Peace,  good-will  to  men." 

He  swings  the  pealing  bells  about, 

The  iron  cups  o'erflow 
And  dash  their  floods  of  melody 

Upon  the  streets  below. 

The  pealing  organ,  far  beneath, 

The  glorious  anthem  swells 
And  answers  the  glad  carol  of 

The  Spirit  of  the  Bells. 

Then,  in  the  belfry  of  St.  Paul's 

A  happy  Spirit  dwells 
'Mid  whirling  wheels  and  reeling  ropes,  — 

Glad  Spirit  of  the  Bells. 

0  city !  canst  thou  e'er  forget 
This  tale  the  Spirit  tells 

259 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

High  in  the  tower  of  old  St.  Paul's, 
Among  the  swinging  bells  ? 

Amid  the  roar  of  busy  streets, 

Which  better  feeling  quells, 
List  to  that  voice  from  old  St.  Paul's  — 

The  Spirit  of  the  Bells. 


260 


JOHN   CHARLES   SHEA 


JOHN  CHARLES  SHEA. 

A   WINTER  SCENE   ON  THE   PRAIRIE 

FROM  a  farmer's  lonely  dwelling,  on  a  dull  and 

cheerless  morn, 
Went  a  youth  to  feed  the  cattle,  but,  alas !  there 

was  no  corn ; 
There  was  ice  upon  the  lowlands,  where  the  chilly 

wind  flew  fast, 
And  the  clouds,  like  ramparts  frowning,  seemed  to 

hold  the  wintry  blast. 

A  dark  line  on  the  prairie,  where  the  Maehehaha 
runs, 

Marks  a  place  for  cooling  shelter  from  the  sum 
mer's  burning  suns ; 

But  the  bare  and  brittle  branches  of  the  trees  now 
sadly  drear, 

Moan  along  the  frozen  waters  like  a  death-knell  on 
the  ear. 

The  youth  looked  to  the  eastward  where  the  day 
god  shines  afar, 

But  the  dun  clouds  in  the  heavens  had  shut  out 
the  golden  car  — 

As  if  the  drowsy  angels,  shivering  through  celes 
tial  light, 

Came  down  with  hands  too  chilly  to  upfold  the 
shades  of  night. 

261 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

As  he  gazes  o'er  the  country —look !  a  shimmering 

light  is  seen,  — 
'Tis  the  icy  diamonds'  glitter  on  earth's  jewelled 

carpet's  sheen ; 
And  the  dun  clouds  in  the  heavens,  casting  shadows 

as  they  pass, 
Can  be  viewed,  as  in  a  mirror,  on  the  sea  of  frozen 

grass. 

Hark!  a  sound  comes  from  the  rising  of  the  hill 
beyond  the  streams, 

Where  a  dead  oak's  gnarled  branches  in  the  dis 
tance  waves  and  gleams  — 

It  re-echoes  through  the  distance  in  a  long,  vibrat 
ing  note, — 

'Tis  the  prairie  wolf  in  hunger  —  'tis  the  cowardly 
coyote. 

A  deer  has  broken  cover  on  the  upland  far  away, 

It  is  making  easy  progress  where  the  quiet  shad 
ows  play; 

The  breeze  from  prairie  warrens  now  the  wild 
dog's  barkings  bring, 

And  the  hawk  affrights  the  game  bird  with  the 
shadow  of  its  wing. 

But  the  youth  hears   sadder  noises   than  those 

upon  the  breeze, 
And  he  views  a  deeper  shadow  than  those  among 

the  trees, 

262 


JOHN   CHARLES   SHEA 

For  he's  heard  the  neighbors  telling  that  the  cattle 

in  the  sheds 
Cannot  rise  for  want  of  fodder,  from  their  cold  and 

frozen  beds. 

From  the  farmer's  lonely  dwelling,  on  a  dull  and 

cheerless  morn, 
Went  a  youth  to  feed  his  cattle,  but,  alas !  there 

was  no  corn. 
There  was  nothing  that  would  strengthen  on  the 

ranges  where  they  fed, 
And  half  the  herd  Avere  dying,  and— the  other 

half  were  dead. 

LAWRENCE,  KANSAS,  March,  1875. 


IN   THE   PARK 

AMONG  the  leaves !  Among  the  falling  leaves, 

The  stately  trees  have  lost  their  summer's  glow, 

And  passing  o'er  the  fields  the  evening  breeze 
Awakens  voices  that  are  sweet  and  low. 

Along  delightful  pathways  of  the  park 

Nature  has  painted  scenes  both  rich  and  rare, 

And  all  her  colors,  shining  light  to  dark, 
Produce  a  picture  glowing  bright  and  fair. 

Bright  friends,  you  are  in  passing  season's  flow  — 
For  Hope,  with  your  unfolding,  marks  the  spring, 

And  in  the  summer's  bright  and  genial  glow 

You  throw  the  charm  of  shade  o'er  everything. 

263 


POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  under  thy  protection  birds  have  made 

The  woodland  ring  with  joyous  songs  of  love, 

And  in  the  secret  corners  of  thy  shade 

They  found  a  shelter  from  the  storms  above. 

Among  thy  leaves !  —  among  thy  rustling  leaves 
I  played,  enraptured,  when  a  thoughtless  child, 

And  learned  their  softer  cadence  in  the  breeze 
And  marked  their  voices  when  the  storm  was 
wild. 

Thus  through  this  life;  and  when  we've  passed 
away, 

The  leaves,  our  friends,  will  nestle  where  we  lie, 
Their  colors  brightening  in  the  sunlight  ray, 

Their  voices  mellowTed  'nea.th  the  autumn  sky. 


I  WANT   TO   GO   FISHING  TO-DAY 

THERE'S  a  langorous  feeling  and  sultry  air, 

In  office  and  store  and  street ; 
There's  a  longing  for  shores  where  the  winds  are 
fair, 

And  cooling  sands  for  the  feet.. 
There's  the  swish  of  the  waves  and  the  splash  of 
the  oars, 

The  sound  of  a  distant  call ; 
There's  the  far-away  cloud  that  gently  soars, 

And  the  blue  that  covers  all. 

264 


JOHN   CHARLES   SHEA 

And,  oh,  as  I  look  from  my  window  high, 

And  watch  the  clouds  at  play, 
There  comes  from  my  heart  such  a  rising  sigh 

I  want  to  go  fishing  to-day. 

I  strive  to  banish  the  thought  of  a  line 

That  leads  to  the  lair  of  the  bass ; 
I  think  of  the  dangers  that  may  be  mine, 

Ere  the  island's  head  I  pass. 
But,  oh,  that  bare-footed  boy  that  comes 

With  his  rod,  has  stirred  me  again, 
And  I  sing  once  more  the  song  that  he  hums, 

And  I  long  to  be  in  his  train. 
For  memory  launched  a  silvery  boat 

On  a  sea  that  is  bright  and  gay  — 
The  happiest  man  I  would  be  afloat, 

Could  I  but  go  fishing  to-day. 


THE  voice  of  her  I  love,  how  dear ! 

Tho'  far  my  wand'ring  footsteps  stray, 
It  lingers  on  my  list'ning  ear, 
It  vibrates  thro'  each  passing  year ; 

And,  thinking  of  that  voice  to-day, 
Remembrance  claims  the  willing  tear. 

My  mother's  voice !   Its  gentle  power 
Has  turned  temptation's  face  away; 

265 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  tho'  the  tempest  clouds  may  lower, 
To  darken  life's  most  joyous  hour, 

It  comes,  like  sunshine  on  the  day, 
To  brighten  field,  and  wood,  and  bower. 

That  voice  comes  to  me  when  alone, 
In  cheering  accents,  soft  and  sweet ; 

In  festive  halls  I  hear  its  tone ; 

And  when  to  wilder  scenes  I've  flown  — 
Thro'  haunts  of  men,  thro'  busy  street  — 

Its  magic  spell  is  round  me  thrown. 

How  sweet  the  voices  are  that  blend 
In  murmuring  rill  and  flow'ry  lee; 

In  whisperings  that  the  south  winds  send ; 

In  sighs  from  trees  when  branches  bend ; 
In  thrilling  sounds  from  heaving  sea, 

And  in  the  echoes  valleys  lend ! 

Yet  naught  has  ever  touched  my  heart 
Like  that  swreet  voice  I  long  to  hear ; 

An  echo  of  the  soul  thou  art ! 

And  from  this  revery  I  start 

To  feel  my  mother's  spirit  near, 

Sweet  voice !  ah,  we  shall  never  part ! 


266 


MARY    EVELYN   AUSTIN 


MARY  EVELYN  AUSTIN 

TWILIGHT 

SOFTLY  the  twilight  comes  from  out  the  land 

Of  shadows,  and  upon  each  weary  brow 
She  lays  a  touch  that  calms — we  know  not  how, 

But  only  feel  the  softness  of  her  hand ; 

And  cares  that  have  oppressed,  at  her  command, 
Leave  us  in  peace,  and  bitter  sorrows,  now, 
She  lulls  to  sleep,  and  will  no  more  allow 

Their  wakening  till  the  clamorous  day's  demand. 
No  active  life  disturbeth  them— the  power 

Of  her  majestic  presence  so  has  filled 

Our  secret  souls,  that  all  unconsciously, 
We  yield  unto  the  spirit  of  the  hour ; 

And  so  are  comforted,  hushed,  and  stilled ; 

As  children  are  when  round  their  mother's 
knee. 


DECEMBER 

THE  earth  lies  flooded  in  the  light 
Of  a  strange  star,  a  star  so  bright, 
The  others  hide  themselves ;  the  bells 
Are  ringing  out  a  song  that  tells 
Of  joy  on  earth,  and  in  the  sky 
An  Angel  chorus,  from  on  high, 

267 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

In  hallelujahs  tell,  that  peace 
And  love  to  man  shall  never  cease. 
Now  comes  a  maiden,  grand  and  fair, 
An  ice-crown  on  her  golden  hair, 
With  warmest  love  in  her  soft  eyes ; 
She  leads  us  where  a  Baby  lies 
Sleeping  upon  a  lonely  bed, 
A  glorious  halo  round  His  head. 
Surely  art  thou,  December  dear, 
The  blessed  month  of  all  the  year. 


A  WATER    LILY 

SEE  what  a  perfect  form  has  this  fair  flower 
That  lies  reposing  on  the  river's  breast ; 

Moving  whene'er  the  swelling  water  breathes, 
And  by  the  motion  lulled  to  dreamy  rest. 

It  does  not  seem  as  if  the  sombre  ground 
Cpuld  to  so  beautiful  a  thing  give  birth, 

And  yet  the  slender,  pliant  stem  has  found 
Below  the  wave  an  anchor  in  the  earth. 

Each  pearly  petal  is  a  mystery, 

So  beautiful  it  is,  so  pure  and  white ; 

It  might  have  been  a  jewel  once  in  heaven, 
Dropped  by  an  angel  in  his  upward  flight. 

So  plenteous  is  the  perfume  it  exhales, 

The  winds,  the  willing  messengers,  a  part 

Bear  to  the  shore,  to  lure  adventurous  bees 
To  seek  for  honey  in  its  golden  heart. 

268 


MARY   EVELYN   AUSTIN 

Sometimes  a  busy  insect  quite  forgets  — 
In  his  intent  to  gather  winter  stores  — 

The  night's  approach,  until  the  outer  leaves 
Making  him  captive,  gently  close  the  doors. 

Oh !    who  would  not  in  such  a  prison  house 
A  willing  dweller  pass  his  life  away, 

And  let  the  flying  hours  unnoticed  glide 

From  day  to  night ; — from  night  again  to  day ! 


MISS  CROCUS 

Miss  Crocus  poked  her  cunning  head 

Straight  up  into  the  snow. 
"  Oh  my !  "  said  she,  "  'tis  cold  up  here, 
I  wish  I'd  staid  below." 

She  would  have  perished,  but  the  sun 

Revived  her  with  his  light ; 
He  raised  her  head  and  drove  the  snow 

Away,  quite  out  of  sight. 

But  when  the  other  flowers  came  up 
They  said  "You  selfish  thing, 

You  should  have  called  us  when  you  came, 
We  didn't  know  'twas  spring." 

"I  didn't  like  to  waken  you, 
You  all  were  sleeping  so, 
Besides,"  she  said,  "some  one  must  be 
The  first  to  start,  you  know." 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


FREDERIC  ALMY 

KING  TOIL 
Read  at  the  dedication  of  the  Pan-American  Exposition,  Buffalo,  May  20, 1901 . 

A  KING  is  crowned  on  this  May  day 

With  pomp  beyond  the  dreams  of  kings; 

From  pole  to  pole  extends  his  sway, 
And  half  a  world  its  tribute  brings. 

Two  continents  of  freedom  bend 

Before  his  throne  a  willing  knee, 
And  Gods  and  Titans  condescend 

To  serve  the  lord  that  is  to  be. 

The  bolts  of  Jove  are  in  his  hand, 

Niagara  yields,  the  seas  obey ; 
Not  Xanadu  or  Samarcand 

Can  match  his  palace  of  a  day. 

With  throbbing  flags  instead  of  drum, 
With  flashing  streams  instead  of  sword, 

King  Toil,  the  king  of  kings,  has  come, 
Of  all  mankind  the  hope  and  lord. 

And  Beauty  comes  as  Queen  of  Toil 

To  share  his  rainbow  jubilee; 
Art  tempering  use  like  a  sweet  foil, — 

A  bow  of  hope  across  our  sea. 

Toil's  Barons  twain  of  Brawn  and  Brain 
Their  countless  triumphs  here  display ; 

For  Brawn  has  wrought  what  Brain  has  thought, 
And  both  are  passing  proud  to-day. 

270 


FREDERIC    ALMY 

Three  great  nativities  emboss 

Peace  on  the  young  King's  diadem,— 

The  Northern  Star,  the  Southern  Cross, 
And  the  white  star  of  Bethlehem.* 

Who  prates  of  Peace?    What  war  so  dire 
As  Labor's  wars,  where  hungry  wives, 

And  uncheered  men,  forsaking  hire, 
In  comrades'  battles  risk  their  lives? 

Though  Head  and  Hand  still  vex  the  land 
With  civil  strife  for  share  of  spoil, 

The  fettering  past  shall  break  at  last, 

And  peace  on  earth  shall  dwell  with  Toil. 

Culture  and  wealth  shall  learn  to  hold 
Their  gifts  in  trust,  for  others'  joy; 

Love  shall  wash  Ishmael's  feet,  and  gold 
Shall  purge  its  hard  and  base  alloy. 

Here,  in  Toil's  temple  opal-hued, 

Blazing  with  gold  and  amethyst, 
Its  brief,  eternal  pulchritude 

By  fountains  laved,  by  fire  kissed, 

We  pledge  this  century,  which  shall  close 
A  great  Millennium's  splendid  page 

And  lead  Man,  conqueror  o'er  old  foes, 
To  the  new  tasks  of  a  new  age. 

*  The  motto  on  the  Pan-American  flag  was  Pax,  and  the  emblems  the 
North  Star  and  the  Southern  Cross. 


271 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

DO  —  SAY 

Two  Brothers  once  lived  down  this  way, 
And  one  was  Do  and  one  was  Say. 
If  streets  were  dirty,  taxes  high, 
Or  schools  too  crowded,  Say  would  cry : 
"Lord,  what  a  town ! "  but  Brother  Do 
Would  set  to  work  to  make  thing's  new. 

And  while  Do  worked  Say  still  would  cry : 
"  He  does  it  wrong !  I  know  that  I 
Could  do  it  right."    So  all  the  day 
Was  heard  the  clack  of  Brother  Say. 
But  this  one  fact  from  none  was  hid : 
Say  always  talked ;  Do  always  did. 


TO  JOHN   B.   OLMSTED 

On  his  Fiftieth  Birthday,  January  28,  1904. 

USEFUL,  yet  genial,  you  can  warm 
The  chilly  summits  of  reform. 
The  sinners  scarcely  feel  constraint 
With  such  a  comfortable  Saint ; 
And  yet  for  fifty  years  have  you 
The  gospel  lived  of  service  true. 

Serious  and  strong,  you  seek  to  share 
The  loads  the  heavier-hearted  bear, 
While  at  your  smile  their  fardels  seem 
To  disappear  as  in  a  dream. 
The  Cloud-compeller  could  not  vie 
With  you  in  making  shadows  fly. 

272 


FREDERIC    ALMY 

When  you  were  born,  Joy  laughed  to  see 

How  dear  to  men  your  life  would  be. 

Your  singing  soul  can  drive  away 

The  darkness  of  the  dreariest  day, 

And  all  your  hosts  of  friends  gain  cheer 

Simply  from  knowing  you  are  here. 


273 


POETS   AND    POETRY    OF    BUFFALO 


MARY  J.  MAcCOLL 

CONTRADICTION 

OVER  the  purple  hills, 

On  through  the  dewy  dale, 
Softly  the  twilight  steals 

Clad  in  her  misty  veil ; 
Dead  is  the  after-glow ; 

Fair  on  the  brow  of  night 
Gleameth  the  moon ;  below 

Mirrors  the  lake  her  light. 

Creeping  o'er  clovered  leas, 

Stealing  through  boughs  abloom, 
Bloweth  a  gentle  breeze 

Laden  with  rich  perfume. 
Sweetly  a  down  the  dell 

Floateth  a  lightsome  lay ; 
Katydid,  hush!  and  tell  — 

Rideth  my  love  that  way  ? 

Close  by  the  ivied  tower, 

Weaving  sweet  dreams,  I  wait, 
Wearing  his  favorite  flower ; 

Yet,  when  he  opes  the  gate, 
I  shall  be  cold  and  shy ; 

The  buds  aside  I'll  throw, 
And  wish  he  would  pass  by, 

Though  I  should  weep,  I  know. 

274 


MAKY   J.   MAcCOLL 

The  robe  he  praised  I  wear, 

A  simple  gown  of  white ; 
I've  bound  my  shining  hair 

With  sprays  of  myrtle  bright. 
0,  heart !  he  is  anear 

In  haste  I  turn  aside, 
Albeit  I  love  him  dear, 

Dearer  than  all  beside. 


A    PENITENTIAL    PRAYER 

0,  GOD  !  I  lift  my  tearful  eyes  to  Thee, 

Hear  Thou  my  prayer ; 
For  comfort,  Lord,  I  cry  imploringly,  — 

My  sorrow  share. 

Here  at  Thy  feet  my  wounded  heart  I  lay,  — 

Thou  wilt  not  spurn, 
Though  I  have  wandered  from  Thee  far  awray, 

Nor  would  return. 

Though  oft  with  patient  love  Thou  didst  beseech, 

In  wrath  command, 
I  heeded  not  the  lessons  Thou  wouldst  teach,  — 

I  built  on  sand. 

I  sought  with  earthly  love  my  soul  to  feed, 

But  all  in  vain,  — 
It  left  me  famishing  in  hour  of  need, 

And  brought  but  pain, 

275 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Rending  the  veil  that  hid  my  inner  life 

From  human  eyes, 
Revealed  past  failures,  errors,  sorrow,  strife,  — 

In  cold  surprise. 

Love,  seeking  for  perfection,  scornful  turned 

From  me  aside ; 
The  comfort,  help  and  strength  for  which  I  yearned 

Were  each  denied. 

Now,  ever  faithful  Friend,  to  Thee  I  come ; 

Dear  Lord,  forgive ! 
A  weary  wanderer  returning  home, 

I  pray  receive. 

An  empty,  undivided  heart  at  last 

I  offer  Thee ; 
0  seal  it  Thine,  —  my  broken  idols  cast 

Afar  from  me. 

With  willing  feet  I'll  follow  evermore 

Where  Thou  dost  lead ; 
Thy  love  hath  proven  an  exhaustless  store 

In  hour  of  need. 

Within  the  shelter  of  Thine  arms  alone 

Is  peace  and  rest ; 
Dear,  tender  Saviour,  gladly  do  I  own 

Thy  love  is  best. 


276 


MINNIE    FERRIS    HAUENSTEIN 


MINNIE  FERRIS  HAUENSTEIN 

A  MEMORY 

BOCACCIO,  my  Gondolier !  Bocaccio,  once  more 

Along  the  charmed  aisles  of  memory, 
I  hear  the  splash  of  thy  sturdy  oar  — 

Upon  the  crystal  pavement  of  Venice,  by  the  sea ; 
I  dream  of  the  golden  glory  of  San  Giorgio  'gainst 

the  sky, 
And  watch  the  tawny  lateen  sails  that  silently 

drift  by. 
I  catch  the  tang  of  the  salty  wind,  the  Adriatic's 

breath, 
And  see  in  the  light  of  yesterday,  a  past  day's 

radiant  death. 

Bocaccio,  my  Gondolier,  again  I  hear  thy  song, 
And  see  the  strength  of  thy  sinewy  arm,  the 

deep  brown  of  thy  breast, 

And  I  wish,  Oh !  I  wish,  together  we  were  thread 
ing  our  way  along     . 

The  silvery  highways  of  Venice — of  Venice  and 
of  Rest!. 


LOVE'S   LOYALTY 

I  SAID  to  Love,  What  is  the  price  I  pay 

To  gain  thy  gracious  favor  ?    Shall  I  bring 
The  hoarded  riches  of  my  wandering— 

277 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Gold  raiment  redolent  of  far  Cathay, 
The  broidered  glories  of  an  ancient  day 

With  musky  odors  saturate,  that  fling 

The  Orient's  incense  on  the  breezes  wing, 
And  jewels  glimmering  like  the  heart  of  May  ? 

Would  noble  name,  or  deed  of  high  emprise, 
Or  fame,  or  laureled  Honor  win  for  me 

The  cherished  largess  of  love-laden  eyes  ? 
Then  Love  rose  up  and  answered  scornfully, 

Dost  think  with  these  to  barter  tor  my  prize? 
My  very  coming  is  Life's  Mystery ! 


GETHSEMANE 

AGED  and  gnarled  olives  bend  o'er  him, 
Oh !  the  shadows  deep  and  the  mystery ! 
Oh !  the  garden  drear  and  the  Crosses  three ! 

Kind  solace  pour  from  every  branch  and  limb, 
His  cup  of  anguish  to  the  bitter  brim 
O'erflows ;  beneath  Iscariot's  perfidy, 
And  cowering  Peter's  sin,  spent  hopelessly, 
He  gropes  and  suffers  'mid  the  wood-paths  dim, 
And  cries,  "  Am  I  alone?  No  outstretched  hand 
To  give  me  succor  that  I  grief  withstand?  " 
Oh !  faithless,  slumbrous,  unaccounting  friends, 
Small  peace  your  presence  to  the  Master  lends. 

Oh !  the  shadows  deep  and  the  mystery ! 
Oh !  the  garden  drear  and  the  Crosses  three ! 

278 


MINNIE    FERRIS    HAUENSTEIN 

SACRAMENT 

COOL,  in  the  shrouded  shadows  of  the  night, 

The  table  in  that  Upper  Room  was  laid ; 

No  glittering  goblet  there,  no  cloth  arrayed 

In  silvern  broideries,  —  only  the  white 

Of  one  poor  wheaten  loaf  to  glad  the  sight, 

One  Cup  for  all,  Betrayer  and  Betrayed ! 

O'er  these,  with  deepest  thanks,  the  Master  prayed, 

Unheeding  gloom,  and  taunt  of  vanquished  might. 

Beloved  Christ !  so  patient  in  Thy  pain, 
I  shrink  to  own  my  starveling  heart  of  fear 
That  counts  the  petty  coin  of  common  care, 
As  'twere  some  Calvary,  or  thorn-cut  stain ! 
Oh !  let  me  breathe  that  Faith-charged  atmosphere 
Which  made  Thee  triumph  over  Death's  despair ! 


279 


POETS   AND    POETKY   OF   BUFFALO 


KATHERINE  E.  CONWAY 

NEW   LAND   AND   NEW   LIFE 

From  "A  Dream  of  Lilies." 

BEHOLD,  your  quest  is  ended, 
And  the  New  Land  strange  and  splendid, 
No  longer  luring  from  afar,  is  firm  beneath  your 

tread ; 

And  the  way  is  free  before  ye, 
The  skies  unclouded  o'er  ye, 

And  the  past  is  dust  and  darkness  and  the  dead 
have  earthed  their  dead. 

Raise  your  cross  and  raise  your  altar, 
Why  shrink  ye  thus,  and  falter? 
Are  ye  men,  or  love-lorn  maidens?  ye  late  were 

stern  and  brave. 

What's  worth  a  strong  man's  weeping? 
The  New  Land  hath  in  keeping 
Guerdon  for  valiant   battle   that  the  Old  Land 
never  gave. 

Have  done  with  fruitless  yearning, 
Know  ye  not  there's  no  returning? 
The  wrathful  sea's  between  ye  and  your  far-off 

fatherland. 

The  worst  it  threatens  brave  ye ! 
Now  from  yourselves  I  save  ye  — 
Lo,  the  ships  that  brought  ye  hither  ablaze  upon 
the  strand. 


KATHERINE   E.   CONWAY 

AT  A   GRAVE   ON  EASTER-DAY 

Credo    ...    in  Resurrectionem  Mortuorum. 

I  KNOW  the  sting  of  death— its  victory  — 

Since  one  more  dear  than  mine  own  life  is  dead ; 

And  I  can  nevermore  be  comforted, 

Whatever  love  may  come  in  years  to  be, 

Till  God  give  back  what    Death   has   wrenched 

from  me. 

Yet,  ye  would  slay  my  hope.    Who  was  it  said 
"  There  is  no  resurrection  for  such  dead, 
What  thou  hast  lost  hath  perished  utterly  ?  " 

False  seer !  my  dead  shall  live  again,  I  know. 
Those  eyes  once  oh,  so  kind !  shall  smile  again ; 
And  the  dear  hands  that  wrought  but  good  to  me, 
Hold  mine  in  warm  close  clasp.    I  can  forego 
Life's  solace,  and  be  patient  with  its  pain 
Until  the  day  break  and  the  shadows  flee. 


LOTUS  AND  LILY 

SOMETIMES  a  dark  hour  cometh  for  us  who  are 

bound  to  bear 
The  burden  of  lowly  labor,  the  fetters  of  lowly 

care. 

An  hour  when  the  heart  grows  sick  of  the  work 
day's  weary  round, 

Loathing  each  oft-seen  sight,  loathing  each  oft- 
heard  sound! 

281 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Loathing  our  very  life,  with  its  pitiful  daily  need, 
Learning   in   pain    and   weakness   that  labor  is 
doom  indeed. 

And  this  the  meed  of  the  struggle— tent,  and  rai 
ment  and  bread? 

Oh,  for  the  "Kequiescant,"  and  the  sleep  of  the 
pardoned  dead! 

Oh,  the  visions  that  torture  and  tempt  us  (how 

shall  the  heart  withstand!)  — 
The  fountains  and  groves  and  grottoes    of   the 

Godless  Lotus-land! 

Oh,  the  soft,  entreating  voices,  making  the  tired 

heart  leap, 
"Come  over  to  us,  ye  toilers,  and  we  will  sing  you 

to  sleep." 

A  fatal  sleep,  I  trow !  but  we  are  sad  unto  death, 
And  the  Lotus-flower  unmans  us  with  its  sweet 
and  baneful  breath. 

We  look  to  our  fellow-toilers  —  what  help,  what 

comfort  there? 
They're  bowed  by  the  self-same  burden,  beset  by 

the  self-same  snare. 

Falleth  the  ashen  twilight — meet   close   for  the 

dreary  day ; 
Hark  to  the  chimes  from  the  church-tower!  but 

we  are  too  tired  to  pray  — 

282 


KATHERINE   E.   CONWAY 

Ah,  God  who  lovest  Thy  creatures,  sinful,  and  poor 

and  weak, 
Hear'st  prayer   in   the   tired   heart's  throbbing, 

though  the  lips  are  too  tired  to  speak  ? 

Is  this  Thy  answer?    Is  this  the  herald  of  Thy 

peace  ? 
For  the  Lotus  withers  before  him,  the  songs  of  the 

Syrens  cease, 

And  the  palm-trees  and  the  grottoes,  fountains 

and  streamlets  bright, 
Waver  and  change  as  he  cometh,  then  fade  from 

our  weary  sight. 

He  is  worn  with  care  and  labor ;  he  is  garbed  in 

lowliest  guise, 
But  we  know  the  firm,  sw^eet  mouth,  and  the  brave, 

brave  patient  eyes ; 

And  w^e  know  the  shining  lilies — no  blooms  of 

mortal  birth  — 
And  we  know  thee,  blessed  Joseph,  in  the  guise 

that  was  thine  on  earth. 

Thy  hands  are  hardened  with  toil,  but  they  have 

toiled  for  Him 
Upon  whose  bidding  waited  legions  of  Seraphim. 

Thy  hands  have  trained  to  labor  the  hands  of  Him 

who  made  thee, 
Whose  strength  upbore  thy  weakness,  when  thy 

awful  trust  dismayed  thee. 

283 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Oh,  lift  thy  hands  in  appealing  for  us  who,  unwill 
ing,  bear 

The  burden  of  God's  beloved,  lowly  labor— and 
care. 

Oh,  pity  our  fruitless  tears,  to-night,  and  our 
hearts  too  tired  for  prayer ! 


AN  ALTAR-LAMP 

0  SHINING  meek  and  shining  bright, 

An  Altar-Lamp,  indeed ! 
With  ready,  tender,  helpful  light 

For  groping  wanderer's  need. 

Without  the  temple-walls  he  stands, 

His  heart  is  sore  with  sin ;  — 
Through  pictured  saints'  outreaching  hands 
Thou  beckonest  him  within. 

Into  the  House  of  Christ  the  Lord, 
The  wanderer's  rest  from  roaming  — 

Where  robe  and  ring  and  festive  board 
Await  his  longed-for  coming. 

Sweet  beacon-light,  what  joy  is  thine ! 

I  breathe,  in  far-off  greeting ;  — 
So  near,  so  near  the  Heart  Divine, 

Thou  tremblest  with  its  beating. 

284 


KATHERINE   E.   CONWAY 


OH,  long-lost  friend,  what  have  I  harvested 

Of  thy  youth's  bloom  and  mine,  with  its  delight 

Of  love  and  laughter  and  forerunnings  bright? 

Not  peace,  not  hope,  but  life-long  pain  instead. 

Sometimes  this  sleepeth,  till  I  dream  it  dead  — 

When  lo !  a  word,  a  look,  a  soft-drawn  breath, 

And  into  fullest  life  it  wakeneth, 

Ah,  me !  unrested  and  uncomforted 

For  all  its  sleep.    How  could  I  let  thee  stray 

Into  the  vale  of  death,  thy  torch  unlit, 

And  mine  ablaze  that  might  have  kindled  it? 

Oh,  what  befell  thee  on  that  fearsome  way  ? 

And  oh,  what  greeting  would  be  thine  to  me 

Could  thy  voice  reach  me  from  eternity  ? 


285 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


WILLIAM   McINTOSH 

TALISMANS 

DIDST  ever  turn,  in  critic  mood, 

The  pages  of  an  album  over, 
And  mark  the  blissful  platitude, 

Soul-rapt,  inane,  of  friend  and  lover  ? 
To  see,  in  feeling's  magic  fount, 

Forgotten  thoughts  renew  their  youth  — 
Each  heart  its  world-old  vows  recount 

Like  gems  of  new-discovered  truth? 

Here  on  this  spot  where  souls  have  met 

Each  passed  the  word  its  comrade  knew. 
Scant  is  the  tale  we  least  forget — 

Short  as  a  life  in  death's  review. 
Here  in  the  focus  of  a  page 

The  feelings  of  a  life-time  center ; 
Soft  vows  are  told  and  counsel  sage  — 

Didactics  from  a  loving  mentor. 

Why  so  alike  ?    Why  say  they  all 

"  Be  just— Be  true— Be  fond  — Remember  "  ? 
Why  tell  of  pleasure's  flowers  that  fall, 

And  hope  that  bides  the  heart's  December? 
Ah,  friend !  our  hearts  are  tuned  to  sing, 

Like  wild  birds,  but  a  single  strain  — 
Of  all  its  chords,  one  pulsing  string 

Our  passion  tells,  our  joy,  our  pain ! 

286 


WILLIAM    McINTOSH 

Old  is  the  pledge —  "  I  love  but  you ! " 

Familiar  words  the  friend's  deep  vow ; 
Worn  hearts  have  held  heaven's  hope  in  view 

From  Eden's  first  despair  till  now ; 
Yet  shall  we  spurn  the  flowers,  the  sky, 

The  summer's  breath,  because  'tis  old? 
Hush  hope's  sweet  whisper,  love's  dear  sigh 

If  other  lips  the  tale  have  told  ? 

All  that  we  feel  and  are  and  know 

Has  been  before,  shall  be  again ; 
A  myriad  hearts  have  felt  the  glow 

Of  hope  and  love,  dear  memory's  pain, 
And  all  that  stirs  our  souls,  or  tells 

The  dreams  that  fire,  the  thoughts  that  thrill ; 
Creation's  music  ceaseless  swells, 

Old  themes,  old  tones,  renewing  still. 

If  earth  and  sky  and  changing  flood, 

Remingling,  lost  their  separate  charm ; 
If  life  were  stilled  in  field  and  wood, 

Stars  ceased  to  twinkle,  suns  to  warm  ; 
If  nature's  laws  to  nought  returned, 

To  spring  again  from  primal  chaos, 
They'd  be  the  same  whose  ways  we've  learned, 

And  some  would  rule  and  some  obey  us. 

Change  comes  and  goes :  the  new  grows  old, 
The  old,  reborn,  renews  its  powder ; 

Warm  hearts  are  laid  beneath  the  mold, 
Warm  hearts  are  born  in  every  hour. 

287 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  every  pulse  that's  silent  now 
Shall  in  some  bosom  find  its  force ; 

Each  thought  that  stirs  the  busy  brow, 

Through  silent  tongues  has  held  its  course. 

These  are  but  echoes  that  we  hear 

Of  all  the  heart  can  feel  or  tell ; 
Divinest  music  to  the  ear 

Of  him  who  knows  the  singer's  spell ; 
Dear  talismans  of  lover,  friend, 

Whose  magic  rules  some  answering  heart — 
In  whose  blest  sway  two  spirits  blend 

And  each  finds  each  its  counterpart. 


THE  CLOSE   OF  CARNIVAL 

AND   now,  good   night!    Let   parting  words   be 

spoken, 

Our  week  of  mime  and  revelry  is  past ; 
The  music  dies  away,  the  spell  is  broken ; 

O'er  the  fair  scene  one  lingering  look  we  cast, 
And,  sighing,  say,  Good  Night! 

Good  night  to  all  the  world  — to  pole  and  tropic  — 
The  sun-land's  smile,  Aurora's  ghostly  beam ! 

Babel  of  peace— millenium  microscopic, 

Thy  voices  fail,  and  from  the  enchanted  dream 
We  wa.ke  to  say,  Good  Night ! 

288 


WILLIAM    McINTOSH 

To  walled  Cathay  and  to  Japan's  fair  islands ; 

To  storied  Rhine  and  vine-clad  hills  of  France ; 
To  Spain's  fair  rivers,  Erin's,  Scotia's  highlands; 
To  languid  Turks  that  dream,  and  Moors  that 
dance— 
Fair  scenes,  fair  maids,  Good  Night! 

Good  night  to  gypsy  seers,  the  future  scanning 

In  cards  or  stars  or  labyrinthine  palm  ; 
Good  night  to  elf-land  scenes— to  breezes  fanning 
Our  brows  from  goblin  caves,  whose  pulseless 
calm 
Scarce  whispers  back,  Good  Night ! 

Good  night  to  all  our  mirth  and  mimic  splendor ; 

To  mocking  tinsel  and  true  gems  that  shone ; 
Good  night  to  flattery's  smile,  to  whispers  tender 

In  quiet  nooks — nay,  shall  these,  too,  be  gone 
When  Morning  says,  Good  Night  ? 

Must  all  the  light  go  out  when  we  have  taken 
Our  homeward  way  and  these  gay  robes  laid  by  ? 

Must  we  to  hard  reality  awaken  — 

Forget  the  melting  voice,  the  speaking  eye, 
That  told  all  in  "  Good  Night?" 

Good  night,  dear  scene  of  joy  —  half  true  —  half 

seeming ! 

Good  morrow,  Memory !  thy  pale  dawn  is  near, 
Moon  of  the  soul !  o'er  our  past  splendors  streaming, 
Hold,  precious  treasurer,  all  thou  findest  here-  - 
One  long,  serene  Good  Night ! 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


THE  mad  world  spins  on  our  finger-tips 

And  dazzles  the  whim  of  each  grown-up  boy, 
But  once  in  a  while  when,  in  dull  eclipse, 

The  gay  toy  falters,  its  pleasures  cloy  — 
A  gentle  whisper  from  unseen  lips, 

And  a  ghostly  touch  on  the  shining  ball, 
And  lo !  earth  opens,  and  palace  and  hall, 

And  rivers  of  gems  like  the  soul  of  the  sun, 
And  the  princess  of  earth  at  his  feet  to  fall 

Who  the  poet's  generous  spell  has  won ! 

On  autumn  fields  when  the  trees  are  bare, 

On  slopes  that  shudder  when  snows  comedown, 
The  buds  of  a  summer  that's  wondrous  fair 

Are  folded  and  hid  in  the  leaves  that  are  brown. 
In  hearts  that  have  never  won  love's  dear  crown 

Love  waits  but  the  magic  touch  and  smile, 
As  the  white  fields  wait  for  the  summer  air, 
Nor  heed  how  the  tempests  thunder  and  frown, 

For  they  dream  of  the  south  wind's  kiss  the 
while, 

Sweet  spell  that  lasts  while  the  world  goes  round  ! 

For  genius  and  love  and  life  are  one  — 
And  the  poets  that  every  age  has  crowned 

Since  the  song  of  the  morning  stars  begun, 
Have  found  but  a  voice  for  the  lips  that  move 

.In  eloquent  kisses  but  not  in  song, 
And  the  fields  that  have  blossomed  since  earth 
was  young. 

290 


WILLIAM    McINTOSH 

Guard  well  your  treasures  of  beauty  and  love, 

Ye  singers  that  carve  all  things  in  breath, 
For  the  secret  of  Aladdin's  lamp  is  yours, 
And  the  gleam  of  your  light,  like  a  star's,  endures, 
When  its  source  is  lost  in  the  shades  of  death. 


THE    PATH    OF    TEARS 

IN  every  tear  a  prisoned  rainbow  lies 

Till  tears  and  smiles  shall  meet, 
And  pain,  transfigured  by  love's  ministries, 

The  radiant  arch  complete. 

Sweet  Iris !  Not  in  eyes  that  ever  beam 

With  smiles  thy  light  is  born :  — 
The  leaden  sunset  sees  thy  promise  gleam, 

And  not  the  cloudless  morn. 

Love's  recompense !  that  comes  not  till  we  know 

By  loss  what  love  has  given, 
And  bids  us,  mocked  by  joy's  brief  sun  below, 

On  rain's  path  climb  to  heaven. 


HER    BIRTHDAY 

WHEN  my  sweetheart  came  to  town 
Skies  were  dark  and  fields  were  brown. 
In  a  sheltered  nook  just  one 
Dandelion  mourned  the  sun. 

291 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Brooks  were  silent,  earth  was  numb, 
All  the  forest  aisles  were  dumb. 
How  the  slanting  rain  came  down 
When  my  sweetheart  came  to  town ! 

When  my  sweetheart  came  to  town, 
She  brought  all  the  blossoms  down 
From  far  hills  of  paradise 
Mirrored  in  her  baby  eyes. 
Scents  of  grape  flowers  in  her  hair, 
Breath  of  rose  and  lilies  where 
Laugh  and  dimple  were  at  play, 
Making  life  all  holiday, 
Till  the  sleepy  stars  looked  down  — 
When  my  sweetheart  came  to  town. 

When  my  sweetheart  came  to  town 
She  was  tender  love's  dear  crown ! 
Silent  in  a  world  of  noise  — 
Battling  winds  and  romping  boys, 
Winning  with  prophetic  wile 
All  dominion  with  a  smile. 
What  if  all  the  hills  were  cold 
Storm-swept  sea  and  rock  and  wold  ? 
Smiling  heaven  to  earth  bent  down 
When  my  sweetheart  came  to  town. 


REV.    PATRICK    CRONIN 


REV.  PATRICK  CRONIN 

GOOD   FRIDAY 

ON  this  day  so  drear  and  lone, 
Hear,  Oh  Lord !  our  plaintive  moan, 
See,  our  tears  are  falling  fast, 
And  our  hardened  hearts,  at  last, 
Are  in  anguish  raised  to  Thee 
Hanging  on  that  bitter  tree : 

Parce  Nobis  Domine. 

By  the  heavy  cross  Thou  bearest ; 
By  the  thorny  crown  Thou  wearest ; 
By  the  perforating  lance, 
And  that  agonizing  glance, 
By  those  nails  that  pierced  Thee  there, 
Hear,  Oh  Jesu !  hear  our  prayer : 
Parce  Nobis  Domine. 

Ah !  that  scourging  by  the  crowd, 
'Mid  their  curses  fierce  and  loud ; 
Ah !  that  vinegar  and  gall, 
And  the  thrice-repeated  fall ! 
Sins  of  mine,  you  wrought  this  day! 
Weeping  'neath  the  cross,  then,  pray  : 
Parce  Nobis  Domine. 

Hide  me,  Jesu,  in  Thy  side ! 
There  I'll  evermore  abide, 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Let  Thy  blood,  all  precious,  roll 
O'er  my  dark  and  sinful  soul, 
Washing  all  its  guilt  away, 
While  these  tearful  eyes  still  say : 
Parce  Nob  is  Domine. 

Whither,  Jesu,  shall  we  go  ? 
Where  else  bring  our  weight  of  woe  ? 
Save  to  this  thrice-holy  Rood, 
Red  with  Thy  redeeming  blood. 
Here  then  rest  we,  here  we'll  stay 
All  this  bleak  and  bitter  day : 

Parce  Nobis  Domine. 


THE   PARTING   FROM   THE   MAY 

0 !  PLUCK  some  roses  fresh  and  gay 
From  garlands  of  the  dewy  May, 

Ere  she  departs ; 
Ere  she  is  borne  to  the  tomb, 
Where  withered  soon  shall  be  the  bloom 

That  thrill'd  our  hearts. 

Through  all  the  long,  long  winter  hours, 
My  heart  was  longing  for  her  flowers, 

And  moonlight  streams ; 
And  friends  I  loved  were  with  me  then, 
I  heard  their  laughter  down  the  glen, 

In  vanished  dreams. 

294 


REV.    PATRICK    CRONIN 

And  wild  birds  on  the  fragrant  thorn 
Were  singing  in  the  rising  morn, 

Sweet  songs  of  praise : 
"  Oh  God ! "  I  cried,  "  Send,  send  the  May, 
Send  me  again  if  but  one  ray 

Of  youthful  days." 

The  May  is  come,  and  nearly  gone 
But  ah !  my  spirit  still  is  lone, 

And  sighs  anew  — 

Sighs  for  the  friends  that  have  not  come ; 
The  hopes  deferr'd,  the  dreams,  the  bloom 

That  once  I  knew. 

Poor  restless  heart !  cease,  cease  thy  sighing, 
Thou  like  the  waning  Spring  art  dying 

In  youthful  bloom ; 
Thy  early  May  is  long  since  fled, 
Its  hopes  and  dreams  are  with  the  dead, 

Low  in  the  tomb. 


TO    A    FRIEND    ON    HER    MARRIAGE    DAY 

ON  thy  merry  marriage  day, 

'Mid  the  blooms  and  orange  spray, 
'Mid  the  music  and  the  laughter  and  the  song, 

Choicest  blessings  I  implore  % 

On  thy  footsteps  evermore ; 
Be  thou  happiest  of  all  the  wedded  throng. 

295 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Heaven  guard  thy  future  years 

From  the  thorns  and  the  tears ; 
May  thy  heart  be  ever  joyous  as  to-day ; 

And  the  radiant  sky  that  beams, 

Let  it  typify  thy  dreams 
That  shall  glad  fulfilment  find  along  the  way. 

In  thy  life's  fresh  dewy  morning, 

Thy  fond  husband's  heart  adorning, 
Thou  art  leaving  all  thy  girlhood's  home  behind ; 

All  to  wander  by  his  side 

As  a  blest  and  happy  bride. 
With  the  plighted  troth  of  loving  hearts  to  bind. 

Blessings  then  on  him  and  thee, 

Wheresoever  you  may  be, 
In  the  coming  years  of  sunshine  or  of  shade ; 

And  the  golden  ring  that's  worn 

On  this  happy  bridal  morn, 
May  it  symbolize  the  union  ye  have  made. 


SURSUM    CORDA 

CEASE,  cease  thy  sighs,  0  weary  heart ! 

Cease,  cease  those  sadd'ning  sighs ; 
What  though  these  lone  autumnal  eves 
Bring  mournful  winds  and  faded  leaves, 
And  kindly  nature  silent  grieves 

O'er  summer  blooms  and  dyes? 

296 


REV.    PATRICK    CRONIN 

The  fresh  young  flowers  again  shall  blow, 
The  soft  winds  whisper  sweet  and  low 
To  murmuring  waters  as  they  flow, 
Reflecting  azure  skies. 

Forget  thy  wrongs,  much  injured  heart, 

Forget  full  many  a  wrong ; 
Thine  is  the  story  often  told, 
Of  broken  trust,  of  friends  grown  eold, 
And  eyes  long  ray  less  'neath  the  mould, 

That  sparkled  at  thy  song ; 
But  warmer  friends  may  yet  be  thine, 
Fresh  hopes  may  glow,  new  stars  may  shine, 
Thou  yet  mayst  quaff  that  unfound  wine 

Thy  soul  hath  craved  so  long. 

Dream,  dream  no  more,  deluded  heart; 

Awake  and  dream  no  more! 
All  silent  now  thy  youthful  lute; 
But  withered  flowers,  loved  voices  mute, 
Are  all  that's  left  thee,  as  the  fruit 

Of  hours  forever  o'er ; 
But  Death  will  come,  or  soon,  or  late ; 
Then  brighter  visions  may  await 
Thine  entrance  through  his  darksome  gate, 

Beyond  life's  mortal  shore. 

Poor  restless  heart !  were  this  but  so, 

Ah !  could  I  only  know, 
Then  winds  might  wail  and  leaflets  fall, 
Friends  may  deceive  and  vows  recall, 

297 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  youthful  fancies  vanish  all ; 

I'd  grieve  not  should  they  go ; 
For  then,  dear  Lord !  this  weary  breast 
Would  be  at  Home,  among  Thy  blest, 
And  find  at  last  long-sighed-for  rest, 

To  know  no  more  of  woe. 


THE   UNFOUND 

Qui  fit  Maecenas  ut  nemo.     Contentus  vivat  Hor.  Sat.  I.  i.i. 

WHEN  youth  and  youthful  dreams  are  fair, 
And  lovely  blooms  the  tender  cheek ; 

When  softly  waves  the  sunny  hair, 

And  eyes  tell  more  than  words  can  speak, 

Why  does  the  young  heart  restless  sigh, 

And  pine  beneath  its  native  sky? 

And  wish  for  other  years  to  come. 

And  long  to  other  climes  to  roam  ? 

But  when  those  riper  years  appear, 
All  blooming  like  the  golden  grain  ; 

When  loving  hearts  and  friends  are  near, 
To  chase  away  each  brooding  pain, 

Ah !  still  why  heaves  the  lonely  breast 

Sighing  for  future  years  of  rest, 

In  hope  that  joy  may  meet  it  yet 

In  the  calm  eve  of  life's  sunset  ? 

Yet  when  that  eve  falls  softly  down, 
That  turns  to  mist  the  eagle  eye, 

298 


REV.    PATRICK    CRONIN 

And  frosted  grow  those  tresses  brown, 
And  youthful  fancies  droop  and  die, 
Why  pensive  grows  the  withered  cheek  ? 
Why  would  the  sad  heart  fondly  speak 
Of  youth  and  joys  and  friends  that  once 
Were  dear  in  life's  first  innocence? 

Ah,  Lord !  'tis  that  the  soul  still  craves 
Some  unfound  pleasure  earth  ne'er  gives ; 

It  dreams  and  seeks,  then  sickens,  raves 
O'er  the  fair  phantom,  and  thus  lives. 

At  rosy  morn,  'tis  found  at  noon ; 

At  noon  'twill  smile  with  evening's  moon, 

Till,  cheated  thus  at  every  stage, 

The  sad  heart  pines  from  youth  to  age. 

Earth's  treasures,  youth  and  beauty,  fade ; 

E'en  love's  young  dream  but  cheats  awhile ; 
Beyond  life's  sea  is  the  fadeless  glade, 

Our  Aiden  home,  where  angels  smile. 
Ah !  when  we  reach  that  deathless  shore, 
Nor  change,  nor  care  can  touch  us  more ; 
There  to  the  ravished  heart  appears 
The  unfound  joy  of  earthly  years. 


299 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


FRANK   H.  SEVERANCE 


Hitherto  unpublished. 

WE  never  reached  Frascati,  where 

The  sun  his  largess  poured 
As  though,  a  charmed  spot,  'twas  there 

The  Spring  her  treasure  stored. 

Across  the  ancient  Roman  plain 

In  antiquary  quest 
We  passed,  wre  came,  we  went  again, 

And  daily  said,  "  We'll  rest 

To-morrow,  love,  upon  those  heights 

Where  sunshine  ever  lies  — 
To-morrow  holds  the  dear  delights 

Of  earthly  paradise !  " 

The  fickle  gods,  in  seed-time  mood 

Flung  showers  across  the  plain 
From  where  the  sentry  Sabines  stood 

Above  the  fields  of  grain. 

Tivoli's  olive  slopes  were  swathed 

In  sweeping  shrouds  of  mist ; 
In  tears  Tusculum's  marbles  bathed  — 

Frascati  smiled,  sun-kissed. 

*  Extract  from  a  letter :  —  "  During  our  stay  in  Rome,  in  the  early  spring , 
we  often  remarked,  when  on  excursions  across  the  Campagna,  that  no  mat 
ter  how  wrapped  in  clouds  or  rain  the  landscape  might  be,  the  region  of 
Frascati,  on  the  Alban  hills,  seemed  always  in  sunshine.  We  found  no  time 
to  go  there." 

300 


FRANK   H.    SEVERANCE 

When,  o'er  the  green  Campagna  wide 

Storm-furies  whipt  the  air 
As  though  old  Roman  hosts  did  ride 

In  ghostly  battle  there, 

Still  on  Frascati's  sunny  steeps  — 
Whence  flowed  that  Alban  wine 

That  Horace  happy  sung  —  there  sleeps 
A  radiance  half  divine, 

As  though  the  gods,  to  this  late  age 

Were  granting  cheerful  dower 
For  deeds  not  told  on  Rome's  dark  page  — 

For  love,  the  world's  great  power. 

And  here,  perchance,  some  hero  strove, 

And  striving,  was  forgot ; 
Perchance  pure  hearts  on  love  here  throve 

(Love,  like  the  hills,  yields  not!)  — 

No  matter  where  the  clouds  may  fly, 

Elsewhere  the  shadow  falls ; 
Frascati  doth  forever  lie 

With  glory  on  her  walls. 

We  never  reached  Frascati — for  it  lay 

So  near !  and  lo,  ere  long 

O'er  seas  Frascati's  far  away 
A  memory  for  a  song. 

My  sunny  citadel  thou  art, 
My  fortress  of  good  cheer ! 

301 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Grant  me  the  largess  of  thy  heart, 
No  path  in  life  is  drear. 

I  am  content  to  sing  my  way 

The  devious  journey  through, 
Knowing  the  sunshine  day  by  day, 

Unknown— but  loved  by  you! 

O'er  the  bare  plains  of  life  I  go, 

Glad  near  thy  heart  to  dwell, 
Until  those  fairest  fields  we  know 

Where  blooms  the  asphodel. 


NEW    YEAR  8 

Lo,  old  Time  renews  his  youth,  when  the  ages' 

chimes  are  rung, 
In  glad   commemoration    of   the  New  Year's 

birth, 
Lo,the  world  takes  heart  again,  and  again  Hope's 

song  is  sung, 

Till  Glory,  Glory,  Glory!  goes  rolling  round 
the  earth. 


TO  THE  WINTER   MOON 

MAIDS  call  thee  fair !  thou  art  a  frigid  fright ! 
Infidel  phantom,  haunting  hollow  space 
Beyond  the  wholesome  air,  wherein  no  trace 

Of  life,  heart's  blood  a-leap,  tear-drop,  or  might 


FRANK   H.    SEVERANCE 

Of  love,  doth  linger.    All  thy  mirror  bright 
Reflects  to  earth  is  death,  thy  gleaming  coast 
But  girdles  in  a  grave.    World-corpse !  World- 
ghost  ! 

What  bodes  thy  spectral  mocking  of  our  night  ? 

Where's  Nature's  hint  of  Heaven,  for  which  we 

yearn  ? 
Oh  planet  pale,  with  shifting  courses  spun 

Around  an  earth  where  love  and  hope  yet  burn, 
Shall  these  dear  flames  be  quenched,  when  time 

is  done? 

Must  fate  our  labors  and  our  loves  in-urn, 
Eternal  ashes  in  some  final  sun  ? 


AUTUMN 

From  "The  Flight  of  the  Halcyon.1' 

BRIGHT  Summer  folds  her  fragrant  fan 

That  swept  soft  incense  through  the  trees, 

Nor  longer  heeds  the  pipes  of  Pan, 
Their  music  drained  to  dirgeful  lees. 

Red  Autumn  burns  herself  away ; 

Droop  dry  and  sere  the  aster-blooms, 
And  wasted  to  an  ashen  grey 

Hang  solidago's  golden  plumes. 

Witch-hazel's  pallid  flakes  of  gold, 

Late  blown  by  Autumn's  dying  breath, 

303 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  withered  woodsides  coldly  hold, 
Like  kisses  on  the  lips  of  death. 

The  lingering  Spirit  of  the  South 

Yet  dallies  with  dead  flowers  awhile, 

As  sometimes  round  a  death-sealed  mouth 
The  pleasant  lines  of  life  will  smile. 


"THIS  GREATER  BUFFALO" 

Hitherto  unpublished. 

THIS  Greater  Buffalo— what  is  it,  then? 

A  plain,  grown  fruitful  with  the  homes  of  men. 

Wealth,  and  his  happier  elder  brother,  Toil, 

In  myriads  here 

Their  altars  rear, 

Whose  streams  of  reeking  incense  rise 
To  blot  the  sunshine  from  the  skies, 
And  e'en  the  grace  of  Heaven's  blue  despoil. 

A  plain,  engyved  with  traffic  trails,  that  bind 

All  lands  and  marts  of  humankind 

In  sympathy  and  purpose  one. 

And,  where  the  city's  hands  outreach 

An  empire's  harvests  to  receive, 
Her  towers  of  trade 
In  uncouth  silhouette  displayed 
Stand,  battlement ed  and  arrayed 
In  grim,  potential,  gaunt  parade, 

Where  the  West  Wind's  chariots  run. 

304 


FRANK   H.    SEVERANCE 

And  we,  the  dwellers  on  this  fecund  plain, 
Children  of  alien  lands  and  divers  strain, 
But  buoyed  by  common  hope. 

Not  all  our  parent  stock 

Reckons  from  Plymouth  Rock. 
The  slow-pulsed  Teuton,  and  the  peasant  Pole  — 
Woe  worked  for  centuries  to  model  him— 
With  offspring  of  the  earlier  emigrant; 
Italia's  ardor  and  the  Norseland  calm, 
Strength  of  the  Saxon  and  the  brother  Celt 
(Those  helped  by  Luther,  these  liege  to  the  Pope), 
Here  gather  in  fraternity  of  man, 
As  East  from  West  apart,  but  all  American. 

The  New  World's  grandest  marvel,  this :  to  blend 
In  one  new  type  the  sons  of  divers  strain, 
Begetting  here  a  brotherhood 

Of  purer  blood 

And  stronger  brain, 
Of  loftier  thought  and  broader  view, 
Of  clearer  vision  for  the  true. 

Cities  are  built  on  ashes,  and  on  lives 
Without  fruition,  save  that  this  survives : 
A  field  more  fallow  for  the  common  good, 
A  higher  level  of  true  brotherhood. 
We  Babel-builders  with  our  cry  of  " great" 

Should  sanctify  instead 

This  dowry  of  the  dead. 
That  city  only  is  of  high  estate 
Whose  sons  and  daughters  in  them  selves  are  great. 

305 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Art,  Science,  Letters,  —  lo, 
Handmaidens  of  the  Worthier  Buffalo. 
Theirs  still  the  ministering  part  — 
The  end  and  mission  of  all  art  — 
To  wake  to  new  life,  and  control 
The  latent  forces  of  the  soul. 


306 


CHARLES    S.    PARKE 


CHARLES  S.  PARKE 

A   SYLVAN  CEREMONY 

"  KNEEL,"  whispered  the  breeze. 

On  wistful  knees 
In  the  swaying  grass  I  sank, 

While,  all  around, 

A  soft  choral  sound 
Swelled  from  bower  and  bank. 

Two  slender  blows, 

And  I  arose 
Of  sordid  ainis  bereft ; 

By  the  accolade 

Of  a  green  grass-blade 
Ennobled  and  enfeoffed. 

Now  am  I  Lord 

Of  weald  and  sward, 

Fellow  to  leaf  and  flower ! 
Brook,  bee,  and  bird 
Have  passed  the  word 

That  owns  me  from  this  hour ! 


OVERHEARD   IN  AUGUST 

THE  song  of  Kissisqua,  the  brooklet,  the  silver- 
toned  babbler, 

307 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Rehearsing  the  gossip  of  rushes  to  broad  pebbly 

reaches, 
Anon  lightly  telling  of  flower  loves  left  in  the  glen. 

The  song  of  the  westerly  breeze,  full    of    sweet 

meadow  thoughts, 
Orchard  airs,  garden  fancies,  fresh    mem'ries   of 

plenty  afield, 
With  soft  undertone  of  lament  for  the  passing  of 

summer. 

The  song  of  the  cloud  as  its  shadow  slips  down 

the  green  vale — 
An  exquisite  strain,  that  just  floats  to  the  far  edge 

of  hearing; 
A  measure  so  fine  that  its  melody  dies  at  a  look. 


THE    LIGHT    OF    LIGHTS 

0,  A  GLORIOUS  thing  is  the  light  of  the  sun, 

Bringing  life  and  joy  and  love, 
0,  a  noble  thing,  when  the  day  is  done, 

Is  the  light  of  the  stars  above. 

And  a  welcome  thing  is  the  light  whose  gleams 

Betoken  the  journey's  end. 
But  the  light  of  lights  is  the  light  that  beams 

For  me  in  the  eye  of  a  friend. 

308 


FREDERICK    PETERSON 


FREDERICK  PETERSON 

HEREDITY 

I  MEET  upon  the  woodland  ways 

At  morn  a  lady  fair ; 
Adown  her  slender  shoulders  strays 

Her  raven  hair ; 

And  none  who  look  into  her  eyes 

Can  fail  to  feel  and  know 
That  in  this  conscious  clay  there  lies 

Some  soul  aglow. 

But  I,  who  meet  her  oft  about 
The  woods  in  morning  song, 

I  see  behind  her  far  stretch  out 
A  ghostly  throng — 

A  priest,  a  prince,  a  lord,  a  maid, 

Faces  of  grief  and  sin, 
A  high-born  lady  and  a  jade, 

A  harlequin  — 

Two  lines  of  ghosts  in  masquerade, 
Who  push  her  where  they  will, 

As  if  it  were  the  wind  that  swayed 
A  daffodil  — 

She  sings,  she  weeps,  she  smiles,  she  sighs, 
Looks  cruel,  sweet  or  base ; 

309 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  features  of  her  fathers  rise 
And  haunt  her  face  — 

As  if  it  were  the  wind  that  swayed 

Some  stately  daffodil, 
Upon  her  face  they  masquerade 

And  work  their  will. 


ENVIRONMENT 

HIGH  up  around  the  mountain  rock 

Wild  sweep  the  lightning  and  the  storm ; 

The  spruce  grows  firm  against  their  shock, 
Stunted  and  gnarled  and  rude  of  form, 

With  twisted  roots  that  interlock. 

But  by  the  rivulet  far  below, 

Up  from  the  rich  dark  loam  and  drift, 
Where  storms  come  not  and  winds  are  slow, 

Behold  the  stately  willow  lift 
And  sway  long  branches  to  and  fro ! 


THE  SWEETEST  FLOWER  THAT  BLOWS 

THE  sweetest  flower  that  blows 

I  give  you  as  we  part ; 
For  you  it  is  a  rose ; 

For  me  it  is  my  heart. 

310 


FREDERICK    PETERSON 

The  fragrance  it  exhales, 
(Ah,  if  you  only  knew !) 

Which  but  in  dying  fails, 
It  is  my  love  of  you. 

The  sweetest  flower  that  grows 
I  give  you  as  we  part ; 

You  think  it  but  a  rose ; 
Ah,  me !  it  is  my  heart. 


SOLITUDE 

IT  is  the  bittern's  solemn  cry 
Far  out  upon  the  lonely  moors, 

Where  steel-gray  pools  reflect  the  sky, 
And  mists  arise  in  dim  contours. 

Save  this,  no  murmur  on  their  verge 
Doth  stir  the  stillness  of  the  reeds ; 

Silent  the  water-snakes  emerge 

From  writhing  depths  of  water-weeds. 

Through  sedge  or  gorse  of  that  morass 
There  shines  no  light  of  moon  or  star ; 

Only  the  fen-fires  gleam  and  pass 
Along  the  low  horizon  bar. 

It  is  the  bittern's  solemn  cry, 

As  if  it  voiced,  with  mournful  stress, 
The  strange  hereditary  sigh 

Of  age  on  age  of  loneliness. 

311 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

RESURGAM 

THE  stars  shine  clearly  in  the  winter  night ; 

Beneath  the  ice  no  stream  is  heard  to  run ; 
The  old  green  fields  are  still  and  waste  and  white ; 

Kiver  and  field  are  now  become  as  one. 

But  not  for  aye  shall  all  this  silence  be, 

Ere  long  new  life  shall  stir  beneath  the  snow, 

And  we  may  hear  quite  softly  presently 

The  murmur  of  grasses  and  the  river's  flow. 

So,  0  m^  heart,  though  thou  mayst  soon  become 
Likewise  as  cold,  and  lie  as  silently, 

It  is  not  long  that  thou  must  sleep,  be  dumb, 
Before  again  new  life  shall  thrill  through  thee ! 


VILLANELLE 

THROUGH  these  long  months  thy  love  shall  bless 

A  lonely  roamer  over  seas, 
So  love  me  more  and  sorrow  less. 

Each  tender  smile,  each  past  caress  — 

How  very  dear  to  him  are  these, 
Whom  through  long  years  thy  love  shall  bless, 

Who  to  his  bosom  aye  shall  press 

The  new-found  flower  of  love — heart's -ease! 
So  love  me  more  and  sorrow  less. 

312 


FREDERICK    PETERSON 

To  listening  Fates  each  night  address 

A  low-voiced  prayer  upon  thy  knees, 
That  they  long  years  our  love  may  bless. 

Perhaps  the  pitying  Sisters  guess 

How  Hope  the  loveless  bosom  flees : 
Love,  love  me  more — to  sorrow  less ! 

Love  shall  come  back  in,  tenderness, 
Across  the  months,  across  the  seas, 

The  steadfast  love  thy  love  doth  bless ; 
So  love  me  more  and  sorrow  less. 


HAPPINESS 

SHE  smiles  and  sings  the  livelong  day  — 

A  very  happy  maiden  she, 
Whose  blessed  fancies  charm  away 

Her  sorrows  and  her  misery. 

How  sad  and  strange  the  people  here ! 

They  sigh  and  shriek  and  whisper  things 
To  shun,  to  loathe,  to  dread,  to  fear  — 

But  all  the  day  she  smiles  and  sings. 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  that  there  can  be 
Someone  whose  woe  has  taken  wings  — 

A  very  happy  creature  she 

Who  all  the  day  long  smiles  and  sings! 

313 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

IN  A   DAHABIAH 

A  DESERT  lies  on  either  hand 

In  stern  and  lone  repose ; 
Between  the  wastes  of  yellow  sand 

The  dark  Nile  flows. 

All  through  the  valley  strait  and  green 

Are  wafted  faint  perfumes 
From  fields  of  clover  and  sweet-bean 

And  lentil-blooms. 

Palm  groves  and  minarets  and  towers, 

Like  dreams  before  the  eye, 
Pass  slowly  as  through  drowsy  hours 

Our  boat  drifts  by. 

The  dark-robed  women  file  in  troops 

To  fill  their  water  jars, 
Where  wind-bound  boats  lie  moored  in  groups 

With  idle  spars. 

All  day  a  strident  monotone 

Along  the  shore  line  steals  — 
The  noise  of  wells,  the  creak  and  groan 

Of  water-wheels. 

Out  on  the  river  softly  floats 

The  boatmen's  wailing  song, 
Where  up  and  down  the  swan-winged  boats 

Glide  all  day  long. 

Soon  sharp  against  the  reddening  sky, 
By  sunset  canopied, 

314 


FKEDERICK    PETERSON 

Looms  up  remote  and  shadowy 
A  pyramid. 

Strange  sounds  by  curious  wading-birds 

Are  heard  along  the  bars, 
When  night  brings  forth  too  fair  for  words 

Her  moon  and  stars. 

Then  lo,  a  ghost !  — Seneferoo 

Comes  from  his  giant  tomb 
To  guard  his  Egypt  all  night  through 

On  huge  May  doom ! 


THE   LOST  ARGOSIES 

I'VE  looked  in  vain  and  long  for  them, 
My  red-sailed  galleys  and  triremes 

That  sailed  a  sea  too  strong  for  them 
'Mid  windy  paths  and  ocean  streams, 

And  now  I  make  a  song  for  them  — 
My  far-tossed  wrecks  of  dreams. 

They  sailed  and  dear  shapes  went  with  them 
Swaying  along  their  rosy  wales, 

And  comely  rowers  sent  with  them, 

Made  songs  that  echoed  on  their  trails ; 

Sang  melodies,  and  blent  with  them 
Were  sounds  of  oars  and  sails. 

An  island— sirens  sing  of  it  — 

They  sought  with  sail  and  helping  oar. 

315 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

No  token  yet  they  bring  of  it, 

Nor  of  the  careless  friends  they  bore, 

Though  I  am  lawful  King  of  it  — 
The  Isle  of  Nevermore. 

I've  looked  in  vain  and  long  for  them, 
My  red-sailed  galleys  and  triremes, 

That  braved  a  sea  too  strong  for  them 
'Mid  windy  paths  and"  ocean  streams, 

And  now  I  make  a  song  for  them  — 
My  far-tossed  wrecks  of  dreams. 


AT   THE   GREEN  Fill   TAVERN 

DOWN  through  the  windows  open  wide, 
To  fix  the  noonday  on  the  floor, 

The  fir-trees'  gloomy  fingers  glide  — 

They  glide  and  pause  and  glide  once  more. 

There  sits  the  round-faced  drowsy  host ! 

Perhaps  some  phantom  from  his  pipe, 
Floats  forth  to  lull — some  smoke-like  ghost 

Of  Bacchus  when  the  grape  is  ripe. 

Without,  a  gray  old  harper  stands, 

And  through  the  noiseless  golden  noon, 

The  strings  pour  forth  beneath  his  hands 
A  wailing,  sweet  Italian  tune. 

A  lonely  traveller  sits  and  dreams, 

And  dreams  have  filled  his  soul  anew : 

316 


FREDERICK    PETERSON 

The  mountain  wine,  the  music,  seems 
To  set  his  sad  heart  singing  too. 

For  Her  the  harper  strikes  the  strings ; 

The  traveller's  dream,  this  song,  is  Hers ; 
And  loud  of  Her  the  throstle  sings 

Within  the  twilight  of  the  firs. 


RONDEL 

A  LITTLE  love  a  little  while, 

And  then  we  part  to  meet  no  more ; 

For  never  can  old  Time  restore 
One  little  sigh,  one  little  smile. 

Before  us  shall  the  years  defile 
A  wof ul  line,  a  phantom  corps ; 

A  little  love  a  little  while, 

And  then  we  part  to  meet  no  more. 

Yet  ere  we  come  to  reconcile 
Ourselves  to  destiny  —  before 

We  gaze  alone  from  either  shore 

At  the  waste  waters  mile  on  mile — 
A  little  love  a  little  while. 


317 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
GEORGE  HIBBARD 

TERRA  INCOGNITA 

AH  me !  that  it  has  nearly  passed  away, 
The  grateful  mystery,  the  vague  delight, 
Of  those  dim  ancient  days  when  yet  there  might 

Be  undreamed  things  where  sombre  Thule  lay 

In  clamorous  seas ;  or  where  'neath  passing  day, 
Hung  blessed  isles  sometimes  almost  in  sight; 
Or  later  where  fair  Avalon  was  bright, 

Or  shone  the  golden  cities  of  Cathay. 

Old  ocean  holds  no  terrors  any  more; 

We  touch  the  limits  of  the  farthest  zone, 
And  w^ould  all  Nature's  fastnesses  explore : 

Oh,  leave  some  spot  that  Fancy  calls  its  own— 
Some  far  and  solitary  wave-worn  shore, 

Where  all  were  possible  and  all  unknowrn ! 


318 


CARRIE    JUDD    MONTGOMERY 
CARRIE  JUDD  MONTGOMERY 

EVERLASTING  LOVE 

OUR  dear  ones  sleep  awhile,  and  so 
Their  love  is  hushed  to  dreams, 

But  He  who  slumb'reth  not  pours  forth 
His  love  in  ceaseless  streams. 

The  tender  arms  that  hold  us  fast 
Are  human  in  their  strength ; 

Though  power  of  earthly  love  be  great, 
It  ebbs  away  at  length. 

The  babe  is  pressed  in  mother-arms 
The  while  the  mother  sleeps, 

And  quickly  her  repose  is  stirred 
Whene'er  her  sweet  one  weeps. 

But  Love  Divine  can  never  sleep, 

Nor  turn  His  care  away ; 
The  "everlasting  arms"  of  God 

Are  round  us  night  and  day. 

O,  weary  one,  why  shouldst  thou  grieve 
Or  doubt  the  care  He  takes? 

Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  His  breast, 
And  sleep  because  He  wakes. 

The  Lord  thy  Keeper  e'er  shall  be, 
Thy  soul  shall  not  be  moved ; 

O,  taste  the  joy,  the  perfect  peace, 
Of  one  by  God  beloved. 

319 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

FETTERED 

I  CLIP  thy  wings,  my  bird, 

In  kindly  love, 

Like  as  our  God  above 
Restraineth  us, 

When  we  would  soar  too  high, 

And,  sinking  downward,  die. 

Thou  art  too  weak,  my  bird, 

Thy  strength  to  try ; 

Wounded  thou  canst  not  fly, 
So  rest  content ; 

God  holds  us  dowm  to  earth 

To  give  new  pinions  birth. 

Thou  must  not  flutter  so, 

But  wait  in  peace ; 

When  all  thy  struggles  cease 
Thy  wounds  will  heal ; 

I'll  care  for  thee,  my  bird ; 

Undoubtiiig,  trust  my  word. 

So  when  our  God  above, 

In  mercy  sweet, 

Restrains  our  erring  feet, 
We  murmur  sore, 

Nor  see  His  wisdom  great, 

While  mourning  o'er  our  fate. 

If  thou  wilt  still  rebel, 
0,  panting  heart ! 
And  seekest  still  to  part 

320 


CARRIE    JUDD    MONTGOMERY 

From  this  kind  love, 
I'll  give  thee  up  to  go 
To  death  and  keenest  woe. 

But  if  content,  my  bird, 

Awhile  to  rest 

On  this  true  loving  breast, 
Till  thou  art  healed ; 

Then  shalt  thou  soar  to  heaven, 

Thy  freedom  gladly  given. 


MY  OLIVE   BRANCH 

MY  heart's  an  ark 

That  rides  Life's  stormy  sea ; 
One  little,  lonely  bark, 
Sailing  the  waters  dark, 

Wond'ringly. 

Hungry  for  rest, 

It  longs  at  peace  to  be ; 
Weary  of  fruitless  quest, 
Crying  in  fear  suppressed, 

Yearningly. 

O'er  the  waves  cold, 

Ambition  flieth  free ; 
Flies  as  the  raven  bold 
Flew  from  the  ark  of  old, 

Daringly. 

321 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

Flying  above, 

He  never  returns  to  me ; 
Then  soareth  faithful  love, 
Hast'neth  my  snow-winged  dove, 

Trustfully. 

No  rest  in  sight, 

So  homeward  turneth  she ; 
Staying  her  hopeless  flight, 
Biding  the  dawn  of  light, 

Patiently. 

The  wild  winds  cease, 

Again  she  skims  the  sea ; 
Bringeth  the  branch  of  peace, 
Telling  of  sweet  release, 

Cheeringly. 

And  now  she's  flown 

For  aye  away  from  me ; 
My  love  has  found  its  own 
Resting  at  Jesus'  throne, 

Blessedly. 

The  ark  will  stop, 

The  wearied  heart  be  free ; 
Seeing  the  last  storm-drop, 
'Twill  touch  the  mountain  top, 

Joyfully. 


322 


CARRIE    JUDD    MONTGOMERY 

THE    SNOWDROP 

0,  BRAVE,  fair  flower,  my  snowdrop  sweet, 
The  spring  and  winter  meet. 

Thy  gleaming  wings  are  blossomed  snow, 

But  in  the  dainty  bell  below 

The  springtide's  tender  green  doth  glow, 
0,  darling  flower  of  snow  and  verdure! 

I  bend  my  head  a  little  space ; 
Breathe  softly  in  my  face ;  — 

Thy  tender,  curving  lips  unclose ; 

I  drink  the  breath  of  scented  snows, 

And  in  deliciousness  repose, 
0,  darling  flower  of  snow  and  verdure ! 

Thou  art  the  winter's  sweet  reply 

To  our  half-glad  good-bye ; 

But  underneath  thy  snowy  wing 
We  spy  a  messenger  of  spring, 
With  promise  of  more  blossoming, 

Thou  darling  flower  of  snow  and  verdure ! 

0,  may  our  lives  like  thee  unfold, 

Sweet  blossom  of  the  cold ! 

May  we  rise  bravely  to  endure, 
And  be  as  spotless,  fair  and  pure, 
With  promise  of  a  springtide  sure, 

Where  fairer  flowers  shall  bloom  forever. 


323 


P.OETS   AND    POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 

LOVE?S  OFFERING 
Hitherto  unpublished. 

MY  heart  is  like  a  soft,  soft  nest, 
Love-lined  with  gentlest  care, 

To  hold  in  tender,  joyous  rest 
A  sweet  bird  brooding  there ; 

A  waiting  life  beneath  her  breast 
Hath  chained  her  pinions  fair. 

0,  trembling,  unborn  hope,  lie  still 
Within  my  heart's  warm  hold ; 

I  fain  would  hush  thy  eager  thrill, 
The  world  is  wide  and  cold,  — 

Thy  tiny  shell  is  snug  and  still, 
Why  let  thy  life  unfold? 

With  joyous  psalm,  my  fair,  fair  bird 

Doth  softly,  sweetly  sing, 
Awhile  the  life,  yet  scarcely  stirred, 

She  hides  'neath  patient  wing ; 
I  listen,  lest  I  lose  a  word 

The  throbbing  air  may  bring ;  — 

"  Ah,  love  must  live  beyond  its  nest, 

I  hide  it  'neath  these  wings 
Until  my  life  burns  through  my  breast, 

And  into  being  brings 
The  sheltered  hope  o'er  which  I  rest 

Until  it  wakes  and  sings. 

"  The  world  its  glad  song  cannot  chill, 
No  soul  can  e'er  forget 

324 


CAKRIE    JUDD    MONTGOMERY 

That  it  has  known  the  rapturous  thrill 

Love's  loving  can  beget, 
And  when  at  last  all  life  seems  still, 

Immortal  love  loves  vet." 


325 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
ADA  DAVENPORT  KENDALL 

THE   LADY   OF  MY  DREAMS 

LIKE  flash  of  wild  bird  in  the  night, 
A  tender  fleeting  thing,— 
Or  like  a  breath  of  soft  sweet  air 
When  Winter  kisses  Spring, — 
As  falling  rose  leaves  in  the  rain 
Her  fragrant  presence  seems ; 
She  is  the  answer  to  my  soul — 
The  lady  of  my  dreams. 

With  wild  unrest  she  fills  my  heart, 

The  tender  fleeting  thing, 

And  yet  I  would  not  touch  her  hand 

Or  still  her  wandering. 

As  well  imprison  opal  fire 

Or  catch  the  moon's  white  beams  ;— 

And  so  I  follow  with  my  soul 

The  lady  of  my  dreams. 


A   SLIGHT  MISTAKE 

A  DANDELION  top  growing  right  in  my  room  ! 
A  round  silvery  ball  that  is  just  out  of  bloom, 
It  bobs  to  and  fro  as  if  swayed  by  the  breeze. 
Now  how  did  you  come  in  my  house,  if  you  please? 
What!  aren't  you  a  dandy  top?    I'm  in  a  whirl, — 
You  can't  be  your  mother's  own  tow-headed  girl ! 

326 


ADA    DAVENPORT    KENDALL 

A   FENCE  CORNER 

A  BEND  in  the  line  of  the  time-browned  rail-fence, 
The  rugged  back-bone  of  the  fields ; 

A  bush-covered  angle, 

A  fragrant  green  tangle 
That  only  a  fence  corner  yields. 

Swaying  this  way  and  that  like  a  big-sister  flower 
Is  Matilda  Jane's  sun-shade  of  pink, 

While  swung  'cross  a  rail 

Hangs  a  gleaming  tin  pail ; 
There'll  be  berries  for  supper,  I  think. 

But  it  happens  just  now  that  a  trespasser  comes, 
And  the  fence  as  a  barrier  fails. 

A  brace  for  a  swing, 

Two  long  legs  make  a  spring, 
And  now  side  by  side  hang  two  pails. 

I'll  not  spy,  but  I  think  that  the  mother  at  home 
Should  make  other  provisions  for  tea, 

For  the  clank  of  those  pails 

As  they  sway  on  the  rails 
Sounds  woefully  empty  to  me. 


OCTOBER 

THE  ambers  slip  through  my  unwilling  hands ; 

I  am  a  child,  afraid  of  change  and  cold ; 
I  dread  the  winter  I  have  never  known, 

I  fear  the  partings  and  the  growing  old. 

327 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

If  one  survivor  of  the  year  would  swing 

Those  grim  mysterious  doors,  and  for  a  while 

Return  to  comfort  me,  I  could  take  heart 

And  face  the  thing  called  winter  with  a  smile. 

But  here  alone,  how  is  a  child  to  know 

That  Love  goes  with  one  all  the  days  and  years ; 

That  'neath  the  magic  of  December's  touch 
The  ambers  turn  to  pearls  instead  of  tears  ? 


328 


HENRY    A.   VAN    FREDENBERG 
HENRY  A.  VAN  FREDENBERG 

THE   LAND  OF   LANDS 

THE  land  of  lands  is  Arcady, 
The  realm  of  mount,  of  mead,  of  tree, 
Of  townless  hills,  from  Mammon  free, 
Of  ways  of  sweet  simplicity, 

The  land  above 

All  else  than  love : 
0  heart !  let's  off  to  Arcady ! 

The  men  are  bluff  in  Arcady, 
But  in  their  oaths  all  faith  may  be, 
And  there  fails  ne'er  the  pilgrim's  plea 
For  hearty  hospitality ; 

Though  plain  the  fare 

'Tis  free  gift  there : 
0  heart !  let's  off  to  Arcady ! 

The  maids  are  sweet  in  Arcady, 
More  sweet  than  e'er  elsewhere  saw  ye. 
To  them  no  gallants  bend  the  knee 
In  modes  of  fraudful  gallantry, 

For  each  is  queen 

In  bower  green : 
0  heart !  let's  off  to  Arcady ! 

The  brooks  sing  aye  in  Arcady 
In  company  with  bird  and  bee, 

329 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  kiss  the  flowers  as  to  the  sea 
They  glide  down  grassy  slopes  in  glee ; 

By  night  and  day 

They  sing  alway : 
0  heart !  let's  off  to  Arcady ! 

And  Pan  is  king  in  Arcady ! 
The  king  of  all  the  kings  is  he ! 
When  all  the  birds  on  hill  and  lea 
Are  still,  he  playeth  merrily 

To  listeners  mute 

His  osier  flute : 
0  heart !  let's  off  to  Arcady ! 

Smile  all  the  eyes  in  Arcady, 
Love  all  the  hearts  in  Arcady, 
Call  all  the  maids  in  Arcady, 
Grief  hath  no  hall  in  Arcady ! 

There  Pan  gives  joy 

That  ne'er  doth  cloy : 
0  heart !  let's  off  to  Arcady ! 


THE  MAIDEN  WHO  WINS 
Ballade. 

AH,  maiden  sweet  with  the  drooping  eye, 
And  the  roselike  cheek  and  tawny  hair, 

And  the  siren  feint  of  a  smothered  sigh, 
And  the  luring  ruse  of  a  languid  air, 
Thou  seemest  coy,  but  the  maids  who  dare 

330 


HENRY    A.    VAN    FREDENBERG 

In  the  lists  with  thee  are  aye  outdone ; 

Men  turn  from  the  sun's  too  ardent  glare : 
The  maiden  who  wins  is  she  who's  won. 

The  rose  that  brushes  the  passer-by 

May  be  the  sweetest,  may  be  most  fair, 
But  he  who's  hurt  the  thorn  will  spy, 

And  love  flies  ever  from  open  snare ; 

The  half-hid  bloom  is  the  one  he'd  bear, 
The  bloom  that  shrinks  from  the  scorching  sun. 

'Tis  the  unworn  charm  will  longest  wear: 
The  maiden  who  wins  is  she  who's  won. 

0,  timid  blossom,  there's  none  to  vie 
With  thee  in  the  lists,  so  have  no  care. 

Thy  prince  is  coming,  he  draweth  nigh ! 
Nay,  flutter  not  so,  but  coyly  spare 
A  first  love  kiss !  Tis  his  guerdon  rare ! 

Such  kiss  is  pure  as  the  prayer  of  a  nun, 
'Tis  a  kiss  by  which  he'll  ever  swear : 

The  maiden  who  wins  is  she  who's  won. 

ENVOY. 

Rose,  ever  of  open  wiles  beware ; 

The  prey  the  uncovered  snare  will  shun, 
Never  the  moss  from  thy  veiled  face  tear : 

The  maiden  who  wins  is  she  who's  won. 


331 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

NO  TEARS  FOR  ME 

Rondeau. 

No  tears  for  me !  Have  I  my  will, 
The  friends  who  bend  above  me  still 
In  death  will  not  insult  with  tears 
Me  lying,  acheless,  with  shut  ears, 
Unknowing  aught  of  griefs  that  kill, 
Unfeeling  aught  of  pangs  that  fill 
The  o'erfull  cup  of  human  ill. 

My  face  would  say,  with  calm  that  cheers. 

"  No  tears  for  me ! " 
Let  no  eye  weep.    Let  but  a  rill 
Of  sweet  regret  each  friend-heart  thrill, 
Because  I've  done  with  days  and  years 
And,  as  a  sailor  homeward  steers, 
With  joy  have  climbed  life's  final  hill : 
No  tears  for  me ! 


NOTHING  ENDS 
Kyrielle. 

THE  withered  rose  shall  be  rose  once  more, 
The  wrecked  ship  sails  again  from  the  shore, 
The  bow  that's  broken  anew  shall  bend : 
Nothing  began,  and  nothing  shall  end. 

The  dead  man  lives  as  a  man  again, 
The  Now  we  know  is  a  once-known  Then, 
The  foe  that  lives  is  a  buried  friend : 
Nothing  began,  and  nothing  shall  end. 

332 


HENRY    A.    VAN    FREDENBERG 

Sand  on  the  desert?  Not  so,  not  so ! 
'Tis  all  that  hath  been  in  nature's  flow, 
And  it  doth  newly  to  all  things  tend : 
Nothing  began,  and  nothing  shall  end. 

Faded  love  ?  only  delusion  vain ! 
The  fallen  rain  shall  be  sometime  rain, 
And  the  arrow  shot  again  shall  rend : 
Nothing  began,  and  nothing  shall  end. 

Mournful  death?  'Tis  a  mockery  mad! 
The  earth-closed  eyes  over  there  ope  glad, 
And  the  earth-furled  wings  e'er  joy  ward  wend 
Nothing  began,  and  nothing  shall  end. 


LOVE 

Lai. 

WHAT  is  love  ?    0,  pray, 
Mortal,  can  you  say 

In  truth? 

Is  it  truth?    "Nay,  nay!" 
Is  it  guile  ?    "  Yea,  yea ! 

In  sooth, 
Cupid's  only  play 
Is  to  lead  astray 

A  youth, 

Or  an  old  man  gray, 
In  the  thornful  way 

Of  ruth ! 

333 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 

That  was  love  alway, 
That  is  love  to-day, 
Forsooth!" 


LOVE  AND  HATE 
Lai. 

NEIGHBORS  Love  and  Hate 
Once  together  sate, 

And  they 

Made  a  league  to  mate. 
After  short  debate 

The  way 

Opened,  clear  and  straight, 
For  this  freak  of  fate 

To  play ! 

Virelai. 

Ever  since  that  day 
Mortals  have  been  prey 

Elate 

Of  these  two,  who  slay 
In  a  friendly  way, 

And  wait, 

Love  with  Hate  to  weigh, 
Hate  with  Love  to  pay — 

Estate 
Men  must  bear  alway ! 

334 


HENRY    A.    VAN    FREDENBERG 

ATLAS 

I  PITY  Atlas !  He  must  hold  the  earth 

Forever  on  his  back,  with  toil  and  pain ; 
Must  nothing  know  of  all  its  woe  and  mirth ; 

Must  simply  stand  and  bear,  with  wearied  brain, 
The  dull  gross  weight  of  water,  w^ood,  and  rock ; 

Stand  still  and  hold  the  globe  at  steady  rest, 
Nor  falter  for  a  moment,  lest  a  shock 

Should  start  the  little  human  from  his  nest ! 
If  I  were  Atlas,  I  would  lift  my  head, 

Would  spin  the  earth  from  off  my  bended  back, 

And  let  it  go  wherever  fate  might  will ! 
But  Atlas  stands,  with  look  of  wearied  dread, 

Stands  dumbly  bent  and  bears  his  monstrous 
pack, 

And  e'er  I  pity  bent-back  Atlas  still ! 


WHEN  I  WAS  YOUNG 

Rondeau. 

WHEN  I  was  young,  ah !  golden  days ! 

I  strolled  where  brooks  ran  minted  ways, 
Where  grass  was  deep  and  air  was  sweet, 
Where  only  whims  did  time  my  feet, 

Where  care  at  most  was  but  a  haze, 

Where  all  the  months  were  merry  Mays, 

I  never  dreamed  of  gold  or  bays, 

My  heart  with  wrong  did  never  beat, 
When  I  was  young ! 

335 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

The  birds  and  squirrels  shared  my  plays 

In  dewy  mead  and  woodsy  maze, 
And  sorrow  never  did  I  meet, 
In  winter's  chill  or  summer's  heat ; 

I  knew  no  spleen,  no  moody  phase, 
When  I  was  young ! 


336 


HENRY    R.    HOWLAND 


HENRY  R.  HOWLAND 

"  DELIGHT  ROSE 
Died  1769,  Aged  22  Years." 

Inscription  in  a  New  England  Burying-Ground. 

BENEATH  the  grass  she  softly  sleeps, 

Unheeding  praise  or  blame, 
For  whom  this  mossy  headstone  keeps 

The  fragrance  of  a  name. 

A  flower  that  'neath  New  England  skies 
Found  bud  and  bloom  and  blight ; 

A  brief  hour  oped  to  life's  surprise, 
Then  closed  in  early  night. 

Sweet  child,  whose  smiles  in  vanished  days 

Once  gladdened  mortal  sight, 
What  loving  lips  first  spoke  thy  praise 

And  named  thee  "  Heart's  Delight "  ? 

What  tender  mother,  watching  o'er 

Thy  girlhood's  gentle  grace, 
For  all  her  wistful  dreams  found  store 

Of  promise  in  thy  face? 

What  lover  wooed  thee,  sweetest  maid? 

And  grew  thine  eyes  more  bright 
The  while  thou  listened,  half  afraid,— 

"  I  love  thee,  dear  Delight ! " 

337 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Ah !  who  can  tell  ?  this  mossy  stone 

Hides  all  thy  joys  and  tears ; 
The  sweetness  of  thy  name  alone 

Outlives  the  flight  of  years. 

And  stranger  feet  now  linger  near 

This  spot  of  thy  repose, 
While  fancy  frames  an  idyl  here 

Of  fair  New  England's  Rose. 


SNOW-BORN 

WITH  Autumn's  latest  breath  there  came  a  chill 

Of  brooding  sadness,  as  o'er  pleasures  dead ; 

And  through  the  sunless  day,  with  silent  tread, 
There  seemed  to  pass,  o'er  vale  and  wooded  hill, 
The  footsteps  of  some  messenger  of  ill. 

Through  forest  ways  with  rustling  leaves  o'er- 
spread, 

The  pine  boughs  whispered  low  of  bod  ings  dread , 
And  all  the  air  a  mystery  seemed  to  fill. 

But  in  the  shadows  of  enfolding  night, 
From  out  the  bosom  of  the  frosty  air, 
Fell  a  baptismal  robe  of  beauty  rare ; 

And  when,  at  kiss  of  dawn,  awoke  the  earth, 
Each  leaf  and  pine-bough,  clad  in  vesture  white, 

Told  of  the  peaceful  hour  of  Winter's  birth. 


338 


HENRY    R.    ROWLAND 

O.  W.  H.     1809-1879 
For  Dr.  Holmes1  Birthday  breakfast,  December  1,  1879. 

SPRINGTIME  and  summer  past,  the  frosty  days 

Have  come  which  mark  his  three-score  years 
and  ten. 

They  touch  but  lightly  him,  whose  jocund  pen, 
Catching  the  gladness  of  his  sunny  ways, 
And  weaving  joy  and  mirth  in  blithesome  lays, 

Hath  rest  and  joyance  wrought  for  weary  men. 

What  right  to  him  hath  cold  December,  when 
He  weareth  still  the  grace  of  fragrant  Mays  ? 

We  offer  wreaths  of  song  with  incense  sweet, 
To  crown  the  measure  of  his  happy  lot 
With  whom  the  heart  of  summer  ever  dwells ; 

And  deem  our  budding  flowers  a  tribute  meet ; 
These  are  but  of  a  day ;  —  he  needs  them  not, 

*WThose  winter  garland  is  of  immortelles. 


MIDWINTER 

RELENTANT  Nature  in  a  frolic  mood 

Now  holds  her  winter  revels,  and  with  glee 
Hath  decked  in  merry  garb  each  bush  and  tree. 

Trooping  in  mirthful  groups  along  the  wood, 

In  cloaks  of  down,  or  capped  with  snowy  hood, 
Like  maskers  at  a  carnival,  we  see 
Strange  forms  tricked  with  fantastic  mimicry, 

Where  late  in  autumn  nakedness  they  stood. 

339 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Save  where,  within  the  depths  of  forests  gray, 
Whose  sombre  shades  repel  the  garish  day, 

In  mystery  apart,  a  Druid  band 

Of  solemn  firs  and  spreading  hemlocks  stand. 
With  outstretched  arms  their  priestly  forms  uprise, 
Clad  in  the  spotless  robes  of  sacrifice. 


ROBERT   BURNS 

January  25, 1885. 

BORN  unto  toil  and  framed  in  rustic  mould, 

There  stirred  within  him,  masterful  and  strong, 
The  impulse  of  a  heaven-sent  gift  of  song. 

In  strains  now  blithe,  now  sad,  his  verses  told 

The  simple  rugged  nature,  grandly  bold 

In  honest  manhood's  cause  to  battle  wrong ; 
The  joys  that  unto  homely  lives  belong, 

Though  oft  his  days  were  dark  and  skies  were  cold . 

What  heed  we  of  the  wintry  winds  to-night, 
When  hearts  within  are  warm  with  friendly  cheer? 
We  sing  his  songs, —  and  dwell  in  scenes  more  fair, 

Where  summer's  treasures  deck  the  meadows 

bright, 
Where  daisies  bloom,  and  glittering  waves  are  clear, 

By  banks  o'  Bonnie  Doon  and  Brigs  of  Ayr. 


340 


BESSIE    CHANDLEK 


BESSIE  CHANDLER 

(MRS.  LE  ROY  PARKER  ) 

ON  A  HEAD  OF  CHRIST 

By  Quintia  Matsys  (Fifteenth  Century). 

A  GRIEVING  face,  adown  whose  hollow  cheek 
The  bright  tears  fall  from  tender  mournful  eyes ; 
Eyes,  sad  with  never  finding  what  they  seek, 
Lips  curved  by  many  weary  wasting  sighs. 

The  tear-drops  glisten,— frail  they  seem  and  slight, 
As  though  a  breath  would  sweep  them  into  air ; 
And  yet  four  hundred  years  of  day  and  night 
Have  passed  since  first  the  painter  formed  them 
there. 

How  strange  that  they  should  last,  those  painted 

tears, 

While  kingdoms  perish,  nations  fall  and  rise ; 
Strange  that  through  all  the  stormy  rush  of  years 
They  lie  unchanged  in  those  sad,  grieving  eyes. 

Does  He  still  mourn  ?  The  world  from  Him  enticed 
Wanders  afar,  and  will  not  walk  His  way. 
0  patient  One !  0  weary,  watching  Christ, 
Are  the  tears  wet  upon  Thy  face  to-day  ? 


UNAWARES 

HE  leaned  from  out  the  dusty  car, 
And  looked  far  up  the  village  street, 

341 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Where  great  green  boughs  met  overhead, 
And  all  the  air  was  soft  and  sweet  — 

He  watched,  half  wistful,  half  amused, 

The  country  traffic  ebb  and  flow, 
The  farmers'  wagons  in  the  shade, 

The  village  people  come  and  go  — 

A  little  girl  stood  near  the  track, 

With  cheeks  that  matched  her  fresh  pink  gown, 
She  watched  the  train  that  blocked  her  way, 

With  quick,  impatient  little  frown. 

He  felt  the  charm  of  simple  things, 

The  magic  of  a  drowsy  day. 
Then  the  bell  rang,  the  whistle  screamed, 
And  he  was  whirled  upon  his  way. 

He  had  no  thought  that  summer  morn 
That  this  small  village,  fresh  and  green, 

Would  come  to  be  his  fairy-land, 

Where  that  young  girl  would  reign  his  queen. 

Nor  did  she  dream  while  standing  there, 

Impatient  of  the  slight  delay, 
This  train  was  an  enchanted  coach 

That  bore  her  lover  far  away ! 


HER   FACE 

SCANT  beauty  nature  gave  her ;  in  disguise 
Rugged  and  harsh,  she  bade  her  go  about 

342 


BESSIE    CHANDLER 

With  face  unlovely,  save  the  dark,  sad  eyes 
From  which  her  fearless  soul  looked  bravely  out. 

But  life  took  up  the  chisel,  used  her  face 
Roughly  with  many  blows,  as  sculptors  use  a  block. 
It  wrought  a  little  while,  and  lo,  a  grace 
Fell,  as  a  sunbeam  falls  upon  a  rock. 

Across  her  soul  a  heavy  sorrow  swept, 
As  tidal  waves  sweep  sometimes  o'er  the  land, 
Leaving  her  face  when  back  it  ebbed  and  crept, 
Tranquil  and  purified,  like  tide- washed  sand. 

And  of  her  face  her  gentleness  grew  part, 
And  all  her  holy  thoughts  left  there  their  trace. 
A  great  love  found  its  way  within  her  heart, 
Its  root  was  there,  its  blossom  in  her  face. 

Lo,  when  death  came,  to  set  the  white  soul  free 
From  the  poor  body,  that  was  never  fair, 
We  watched  her  face  and  marveled  much  to  see 
How  life  had  carved  for  death  an  angel  there. 


THE   TRYST         * 

SOMEWHERE  there  is  a  stone :  I  go  to  meet  it, 
And  all  life  bears  me  onward  like  a  wave, 
Yet  when  we  meet,  I  shall  not  know  nor  greet  it, 
For  it  will  come  to  rest  upon  my  grave. 

Where  is  it  now?  Still  in  the  earth  embosomed, 
And  waiting  for  my  death  to  set  it  free  ? 

343 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Or  'neath  the  chisel's  touch  already  blossomed, 
And  lacking  only  in  its  tale  of  me? 

Oh,  strange  that  ere  my  life  had  a  beginning, 
That  stone  was  made,  and  for  no  other  man, 
And  all  my  years  of  sorrow  and  of  sinning, 
Are  but  the  end  for  which  its  life  began ! 

I  journey  onward  toward  it,  waking,  sleeping; 
We  may  meet  soon,  or  not  till  I  am  old, 
But  neither  love  nor  hate  can  stop  my  keeping 
The  solemn  tryst  that  stone  and  I  must  hold! 


OH,   GREAT  TRUE  HEART! 

OH,  great  true  heart  that  sailed  life's  stormy  seas 
With  fearless  courage  in  the  roughest  blast, — 
The  voyage  is  over,— you  have  come  at  last 
To  a  safe,  sheltered  harbor,  that  will  please 
Your  sea-worn  ship,  and  give  your  tired  soul  ease ! 
I  see  you  still,  as  often  in  the  past, — 
The  fleck  of  ocean  on  your  brown  hair  cast, 
The  sea-blue  in  your  eyes !  Ah,  God's  decrees 
Bore  you  from  us  this  time,  as  oft  before, 
Under  "Sealed  Orders."    With  our  narrow  scope 
We  cannot  see  you  on  that  distant  shore, — 
Yet  we,  left  here,  with  our  great  grief  to  cope, 
Think  of  the  stars,  that  all  your  life  you  wore, 
And  know  the  anchor  is  the  sign  of  hope. 


344 


KOWLAND    B.    MAHANY 


ROWLAND  B.  MAHANY 

ROMA  ANTIQUA 

BY  yellow  Tiber's  storied  stream, 
How  seems  the  pride  of  man  a  dream ! 
Here  temples  old  when  earth  was  young 
Their  shadows  o'er  this  river  flung  — 
Lone  ruins  now  of  crumbling  mould, 
Save  Angelo  the  grim  and  old, 
Nor  doth  that  even  keep  in  trust 
Its  mighty  builder's  scattered  dust. 

Here  science,  letters,  art  and  song 
Amused  the  weak,  entrenched  the  strong ; 
Here  Cassar  reared  his  lofty  throne, 
His  u  Golden  House"  the  lizard's  own ! 
Here  Emperor,  Prince,  and  Prelate  slew 
The  millions  of  the  false  or  true, 
Yea,  and  the  chosen  of  the  Lord, 
In  the  red  record  of  the  sword. 

Above  the  unremembered  dead 

The  roses  bloom  where  Kings  have  bled ; 

The  stately  river  winds  its  way 

As  in  the  old  Imperial  day ; 

And  Nature  laughs  at  man's  pretence 

To  an  immortal  permanence. 

Oh,  Love,  thy  dreams  can  never  die. 

Still  shines  the  blue  Italian  sky ! 

345 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

PALM  SUNDAY 

DEAR  Lord,  out  of  innumerable  ills 

Thy  grace  hath  led  my  feeble  steps  and  slow, 
Vouchsafed  to  me  Thy  loveliness  to  show, 

And  given  that  peace,  unpriced,  whose  gladness 
thrills 

My  spirit,  so  that  all  its  essence  wills 

The  world  no  more,  but  only  Thee  to  know : 
Before  Thy  feet  of  glory  palms  I  strow, 

While  my  rapt  heart  with  high  Hosanna  fills. 

To-day  Jerusalem  hails  Thee  divine, 

Yet  storm  of  death  awaits  to  rend  the  calm ! 

What,  then,  if  grief  and  bitterness  like  Thine 

To  me  shall  come,  I  shall  not  lack  this  balm, — 

To  know,  that  if  Thy  way  of  peace  be  mine, 
The  amaranth  is  sweeter  than  the  palm ! 


ISABEL 

ISABEL, 

Whom  I  love  well; 

If  my  soul's  soul's  voice  could  reach  you, 
It  would  tell  you,  it  would  teach  you, 
In  the  tomb  where  you  are  sleeping, 
That  fond  memories  I  am  keeping 
Of  the  love  that  once  you  cherished, 
Of  the  love  that  hath  not  perished. 

346 


ROWLAND    B.   MAHANY 

Not  the  Past 
Which  did  not  last, 
Nor  the  smiling  of  the  morrow, 
Nor  the  Present  with  its  sorrow, 
Can  avail  to  dull  the  aching 
Of  the  heart,  when  it  is  breaking 
With  the  thoughts  of  all  your  sweetness, 
In  the  days  of  love's  completeness. 

Fare  you  well, 
Isabel, 

For  the  years  we  cannot  number, 
Soft  and  dreamless  be  your  slumber ; 
Where  the  oriole  is  winging, 
And  the  southern  flowers  are  springing, 
Till  hereafter  I  shall  meet  you, 
And  with  tears  and  kisses  greet  you. 


OZYMANDIAS 

SHELLEY,  to  show  that  of  all  earthly  things 
Pride  is  the  emptiest,  recounts  that  where 
Old  Nilus  dreams,  a  Pharaoh  builded  there 

His  statue,  whose  long-ruined  base  still  flings : 

" 'My  name  is  Ozymandias,  King  of  Kings, 

Gaze  on  my  works,  ye  mighty,  and  despair"; 
While  o'er  the  fragments  which  the  sands  leave 
bare, 

The  desert  wind  a  mocking  requiem  sings. 

347 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  yet,  methinks,  this  King  was  wise  to  render 
Unto  himself  such  heritage  of  glory ; 

What  matters  now  to  him  if  none  rehearse 
His  wars,  his  loves,  his  triumphs  and  his  splendor, 
Or  anything  that  graced  his  olden  story,  — 
He  lives  immortal  still  in  Shelley's  verse. 


348 


JULIA    DITTO    YOUNG 


JULIA  DITTO  YOUNG 

LIVINGSTON  COUNTY 

0  DEAR  New  Scotland,  why  so  long  have  I 

Discoursed  of  very  trifles,  and  delayed 
To  sing  the  vistas  that  within  thee  lie, 

The  dark  clear  brooks,  the  forest's  moss  and 

shade, 
The  gentle  hill-slopes  bathed  in  purple  mist 

The  scarlet-jeweled  orchard's  fragrant  yield, 
The  trees  by  Autumn  into  glory  kissed, 

The  wide  gold  stretch  of  many  a  fertile  field  ? 

Behold  the  reason:  Truly  overmuch 
I  worship  thee,  and  as  a  lover  grows 

Bewildered,  silent,  at  his  lady's  touch, 

While  all  his  mind  in  passion's  channel  flows, 

When  I  thy  zephyrs  breathe,  thy  streamlets  drink, 
And  see  thy  skies  bend  o'er  me  blue  and  bright, 

1  feel  so  much  I  not  at  all  can  think, 

My  heart  so  dances  that  I  cannot  write ! 


PERFECTION 

THERE  is  an  instant  at  the  end  of  day 

Wherein  the  western  sky  so  richly  glows 

We  wish  it  might  unaltered  ever  stay 
In  such  blent  harmony  of  gold  and  rose. 

349 


POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  BUFFALO 

0  Life !  I  pray  thee  cease  thy  rapid  flight, 
Nor  haste  to  terminate  this  hour  supreme, 

But  let  me,  ere  the  fall  of  gloomy  night, 
One  moment  linger  in  the  sunset's  gleam. 


THREE  times  the  book  aloud  I  read 
At  eve  by  Laurie's  little  bed, 
And  grew  to  love  as  well  as  he 
The  stories  of  the  grateful  bee, 
Twin  brothers,  lions,  hunters,  hares, 
Kings'  daughters,  fiddlers,  dancing  bears, 
Gnomes,  foxes,  tailors,  golden  lakes, 
Glass  mountains,  castles  and  white  snakes. 

And  more  than  pleasure 's  my  reward ; 

Suggestions  so  the  tales  afford, 

Tha.t  now  whene'er  I  stranded  be 

For  image  or  for  simile, 

The  picture  of  a  haunted  wood, 

Of  sad  enchanted  maidenhood, 

Of  dragon  battling  with  a  knight, 

Of  bandit  cave's  alluring  light, 

Or  some  such  fantasy  will  rise 

Before  me,  and  my  need  supplies, 

And  Laurie,  when  'tis  read  to  him, 

Delighted  cries,  "  Why,  that's  from  Grimm !  " 


350 


JULIA    DITTO    YOUNG 

A  RAINY   NIGHT 

BLACK  against  the  murky  sky 

Oak  trees  toss  their  branches  bare, 
While  the  last  leaves  riven  fly 

On  the  wet  and  whirling  air ; 
Rain  like  swift  descending  lash 

Beats  the  cold  and  sodden  sward, 
And  the  wild  keen  lightning  flash 

Cuts  the  darkness  like  a  sword. 

God  be  thanked  for  night  and  storm ! 

'Tis  a  blest  relief  to  know 
Nature  hath  the  power  to  form 

Other  things  that  suffer  so, 
Things  besides  my  tortured  heart, 

Torn  with  infinite  despair,— 
Tempest,  I  of  thee  am  part, 

And  thy  maddened  ragings  share ! 


IN  THE  CITY 

I  LONG  to  go  into  the  country  to-day, 

To  pass  the  mill  with  its  ceaseless  mutter, 

And  follow  the  stream  full-  of  boulders  gray, 
Wherever  the  kingfishers  poise  and  flutter ; 

To  ramble  into  the  grand  old  wood 

With   its    sweet   warm    scents,  and    find    out 

whether 
The  maples  are  yellowing  as  they  should 

In  these  soft  hours  of  autumn  weather ; 

351 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

To  gather  the  golden-rod  and  fern, 

To  mark  in  the  brook  the  trout's  swift  skim 
ming, 
To  wander  along  the  lane  and  lea  rn 

If  a  lilac  haze  the  hills  is  dimming. 

But  better  methinks  the  dusty  town, 

Where  love  is,  than  the  glorious  weather 

And  rustle  of  foliage,  scarlet  and  brown, 
Unless,  dear  heart !  we  could  go  together ! 


GOOD-WILL 

I  THANK  Thee,  God,  no  drop  of  gall 
Ferments  and  curdles  in  my  heart ; 

The  sweet  earth's  wide  enough  for  all, — 
I  grudge  not  any  man  his  part. 


Is  it  a  chalice  of  shining  gold,  the  cup  of  thy  pres 
ent  delight, 

Or  only  a  grape-leaf,  filled  from  a  spring,  dripping 
with  diamonds  white? 

Drink  thou  as  though  it  were  proffered  of  gods, 
e'en  as  the  draught  were  thy  last, 

For  to-morrow,  mayhap,  the  water  and  wine  and 
the  strong  swreet  thirst  will  have  passed. 

352 


JULIA    DITTO    YOUNG 


THEN  slowly,  timidly  she  did  extend 
A  little  hand,  which  Evan  caught  and  kissed 
Three  times, — the  first,  as  some  evangelist 
Reaching  at  last  a  distant  long-sought  shrine 
Might  reverently  kiss  reliques  divine ; 
Next,  lightly  as  a  sea-gull's  doubting  wing 
Skims  o'er  the  billows  green  and  glittering, 
Knowing  too  well  a  fathomless  abyss 
Of  yearning  lies  beyond  the  futile  bliss 
And  false  allurement  of  a  single  kiss ; 
Last,  as  the  humming-bird  within  the  bell 
Of  odored  honeysuckle  loves  to  dwell 
And  languid  lingers,  deeming  all  the  world 
Is  by  those  fragrant  petals  over-curled, — 
So  Evan  kissed  her  hand. 


EXTRACT   FROM 

GARNET'S  eyes, 
Brown,  bright,  and  clear,  were  as  a  woodspring's 

rise, 

And  her  soft  cheeks  were  such  a  hue  as  glows 
In  the  pure  pinkness  of  a  perfect  rose,— 
Her  robe,  the  ruby  of  a  royal  wine, 
Was  seeded  thick  with  burning  almandine, 
And  all  unseen  there  lurked  beneath  her  glove 
Glynne's  pledges,  one  of  marriage,  one  of  love, 

353 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  she  was  girdled,  from  the  snowy  arm 

To  the  red  satin  slipper,  with  the  charm 

That  compasses  as  in  a  golden  shower 

A  woman  who  is  in  the  apex-hour 

Of  life,  whether  'tis  hushed  and  unconfessed, 

The  passion  fluttering  within  her  breast, 

Or  whether  'tis  a  diadem,  a  star 

Bound  on  her  brow  where  proudest  jewels  are — 

Dames !  damsels !  ponder  well  the  truth  hereof : 

You,  to  be  lovable,  need  but  to  love ! 


364 


MAKK    S.   HUBBELL 


MAKK  S.  HUBBELL 

TO   ONE   DEPARTED 

AH,  nevermore  shall  grey  hair  meet  my  sight, 

But  thy  bright  locks  shall  rise, 
And  the  fair  rays  of  Heaven's  reflected  light 

Seem  shining  from  thine  eyes. 

Oh,  dear  dead  eyes,  could  I  but  feel  their  beams 
Fall  really  on  my  sadden'd  sight  again 

I  might  the  better  bear  night's  bitter  dreams 
And  memory's  waking  pain. 

I  see  thee  walking  on  the  city  street, 

Thy  gentle  phantom  o'er  the  pavements  glide, 

And  often  in  the  dark  I  turn  to  greet 
Thy  dear  face  at  my  side. 

I  waken  in  the  long  night's  silent  hours 

And  travel  with  thy  hand  in  mine  once  more 

Through  boyhood's  sunny  springtime's  glades  and 

flowers 
O'er  manhood's  storm-swept  shore. 

Thou  art  not  dead ;  perchance,  could  I  but  know 
But  once  the  smile  that  kindles  on  thy  lips 

I  would  not  weep  that  all  the  clouds  o'er-blow 
That  held  thee  in  eclipse. 

Death  gives  thee  back,  perchance,  thy  graces  lost 
In  shining  garments  of  immortal  life, 

355 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  grants  fruition  to  the  hopes  long  crossed 
Of  daughter,  maiden,  wife. 

So  wait  we,  patient,  knowing  mortal  years 
Vanish  where  thou  art,  as  a  watch  at  night — 

That  thy  enfranchised  spirit,  purged  of  tears, 
Waits  for  us  in  the  light ; 

That  thou  art  only  cured  of  age  and  dread 
And  earth's  mortality ;  that  thy  glances  see 

And  leap  to  meet  those  of  thy  blessed  dead 
And  all  is  well  with  thee. 


AT    THE   END 

CRCESUS,  the  lord  of  countless  gold  is  dead ! 
Twine  chaplets  for  the  cold  and  pulseless  head, 
And  'mid  the  purple  on  the  marble  brow, 
Set  a  kind  act  to  shine  a  jewel  now. 
For,  as  some  lofty  vane,  the  sun  once  set, 
Catches  reflections  of  its  glory  yet, 
So  o'er  the  dead  a  good  deed  glimmering  far, 
Reflects  life's  sun  and  blazes  like  a  star. 


THE  ANGEL  SANTA  CLAUS 

WE  ALL  know  God  hath  angels,  both  beautiful 

and  bright, 
Who  wait  about  His  jasper  throne  forever,  day 

and  night, 


MAKK  S.  HUBBELL 

And  one  is  christened  Mercy,  and  one  is  christened 

Love, 
And  one  that  bears  the  name  of   Faith  stands 

very  high  above ; 

And  Charity  is  also  one  in  foremost  ranks,  because 
He  typifies  the  holiest  of  all  his  Master's  laws. 
And  others,  too,  there  are,  I  ween,  whose  wings 

are  white  and  strong — 
Who  bear  the  balm  of   healing  to  the  bleeding 

wounds  of  Wrong. 

The  angel,  Patience  called,  who  brings  the  cool 
ing  breath  of  prayer 
To  fevered  hearts,  may  well  stand  high  amid  the 

hosts  of  air. 
Yet  there's  another,  he  of  whom  with  loving  pen  I 

write, 
Whose  deeds  must  change  the  crimson's  stain  of 

sin  to  purest  white. 

He  wings  his  way  to  earth  and  grief   through 

whelming  mists  and  cloud 
But  once  a  year,  yet  all  his  acts  should  make  his 

Master  proud ; 
Straight  from  the  meadows  asphodel  and  from 

the  fields  of  bliss 
He  comes,  the  children  of  the  world  to  waken  with 

a  kiss. 
He  weaves  within  their  little  brains  the  tapestries 

of  love 
That  make  the  earth  an  Eden,  like  the  shining 

lands  above. 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Just  once  a  year  his  loving  deeds  with  rapture  fill 

the  world— 
At  Christmastide,  when  cannons  hush  and  battle 

flags  are  furled ; 
In  mansions  rich  and  hovels  low,  in  hospital  and 

street, 
He  brings   to   prattling   baby   lips    the   legend, 

strange  and  sweet, 
Of  him  who  only  once  a  year,  with  healing  on  his 

wings, 
Brings  all  the  joy  of   heaven   to   the   sphere  of 

earthly  things. 

And  what  to  older  ones?     Ah,  me!     this  saint 

whose  deeds  I  praise, 
Makes  one  short  era  golden  in  the  roll  of  leaden 

days, 
And  pours  upon  their  arid  hearts,  hot  with  the 

blight  of  pain, 
Injustice,  wrong,  and   bitterness,  kind   heaven's 

soothing  rain. 
And  calls  back  childhood's  bounding  pulse,  and 

childhood's  loyal  creeds, 
When  life  was  void  of  evil  thoughts  and  rich  with 

gentle  deeds ; 
And  gives  them  wine  of  perfect  joy  from  jeweled 

cups  to  sip, 
Like  water  in  the  desert  on  the  pilgrim's  parching 

lip. 

The  saint  I  plead  for,  gentle  Lord,  fulfills  thy  per 
fect  laws, 

358 


MAKK  S.  HUBBELL 

The  angel  of  compassion  kind,  that  babes  call 

Santa  Glaus. 
Oh,  crown  him  angel  by  Thy  side,  and  give  him 

largest  praise, 
Who   makes   an   epoch   golden   in  each   year  of 

leaden  days. 


359 


POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  BUFFALO 


WALTER  STORRS  BIGELOW 

GOETHE,   THE  POET 

PHILOSOPHY  and  Dream 

The  fire  from  heaven  caught 
As  Goethe  thought. 

The  forest,  hill,  and  stream 

With  answering  voices  woke 
When  Goethe  spoke. 

Art  turned  a  listening  ear 
Away  from  all  the  throng 
To  Goethe's  song. 

No  mystery  is  here : 

The  thoughts  of  day  and  night, 

The  river,  wood,  and  height, 

The  fane  of  art, 
All  in  their  turn,  desired  — 
Were  worshipped,  loved  or  fired 

By  Goethe's  heart. 


THE  SONG-SPARROW 

I  WOKE  at  night,  or  just  before  the  day, 
And  tossed,  disquieted  by  many  things, 

Till  sweetly  came,  through  darkness  turning  grey, 
A  bird's  new  song,  that  fluttered  like  its  wings. 

360 


WALTEE    STOEES    BIGELOW 

0  bird,  unconscious  that  you  sang  for  me, 
0  earliest  ray,  indifferently  cast, 

Thine  is  the  song  I  hear,  the  light  I  see  : 
All  songs,  all  glory,  shall  be  mine  at  last. 


CROSSING    THE    MEADOW 

WHITE,  overhead, 
Sails  the  puffed  fabric  of  a  cloud ; 
The  wind's  caress  revives  my  spirit,  bowed 

With  dusty  cares 
That  soil  his  feet  who  in  the  roadway  fares. 

Ten  thousand  blades  of  cooling  green  — 

The  fresh-blown,  clustering  innocence  between, 

Seeing,  I  said : 

"  Pure  blossom,  tinged  with  heavenly  blue, 
My  heart's  dull  chambers  welcome  you." 

I  pass  along, 
And  all  my  inward  powers  awake  to  song ; 

Beneath  my  tread, 
Even  the  slight  springing  of  the  sod 
Sends  my  soul  upward  unto  God. 


361 


POETS   AND   POETEY   OF   BUFFALO 


AGNES   SHALLOE 

TRAILING  ARBUTUS 

WHEN  circling  robins  cloud  the  lea  and  charm  the 

waking  wood, 
And  Pan,  beneath  the  budding  tree,  pipes  with  the 

singing  brood ; 
When  field  and   meadow,  green   and   fine,  their 

beauteous  gems  unfold, 
And  softly  through  the  shadows  shine  the  violets, 

blue  and  gold ; 
The  mandrake  with  its  jeweled  heart,  the  trillium, 

fragile  flower, 
And  dearer  one  that  dwells  apart  far  in  the  dreamy 

bower ; 
'Tis  where  the  tangled  brushwood  sleeps,  deep  in 

the  forest  glooms, 
The  loveliest  flower  of  spring-time  peeps,  the  sweet 

arbutus  blooms. 

We  feel  its  presence  in  our  quest ;  its  essence  thrills 

the  wood, 
Close,  close  to  earth  its  buds  are  pressed  in  dreary 

solitude. 
0  beauteous  spring,  elusive,  fleet,  in  robe  celestial 

drest, 
All  other  flowers  be  at  thy  feet,  arbutus  on  thy 

breast. 


AGNES    SHALLOE 

The  oriole  weaves  its  fairy  home,  and  with  its  toil 

it  sings ; 
A  wizard  hand  bedecks  the  loam  with  rare  and 

radiant  things ; 
But  where  the  tangled  brushwood  sleeps,  deep  in 

the  forest  glooms, 
The  loveliest  flower  of  spring-time  peeps,  the  sweet 

arbutus  blooms. 


CROSSING  THE    DESERT 

ACROSS  the  billowy  arid  sand 

With  fever  flushed,  they  press  their  way ; 

Full  many  a  lurid  sun  by  day — 

The  night  its  cycle  oft  hath  spanned  — 

Since  slowly  to  the  faded  past 

Sank  tower  and  minaret  at  last, 

Of  Egypt's  garden  land. 

The  pangs  of  thirst,  the  fierce  simoon  — 

The  patient  traveller,  well  knows  he. 

Through  weary  leagues  of  mystery 

By  darkest  night  or  light  of  moon, 

With  longing  eyes  grown  strained  and  dim, 

He  scans  the  vague  horizon's  rim, 

At  midnight  as  at  fiery  noon. 

And  lo !  Upon  the  shadowy  line 
Appears  at  length  the  palm-tree's  crown, 
Where  each  may  lay  his  burden  down, 
By  leaping  spring,  in  grove  divine ; 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  rest,  forgetting  pain  and  fear, 

And  quaff  the  water  crystal  clear, 

To  him  more  sweet  than  priceless  wine. 

And  so,  dear  heart,  for  you  and  me 
Is  life  a  doubtful  desert  way ; 
Beset  with  fears  by  night— by  day  — 
Beyond  its  bounds  we  can  not  see ; 
In  summer  heat  or  winter  chill, 
As  pilgrims  here  we  journey  still, 
And  dream  of  glory  yet  to  be. 

And  now  and  then  by  want  or  woe 
The  brightest  day  is  turned  to  night ; 
With  faith  alone  for  guiding  light, 
We  move  upon  our  journey  slow. 
But  soon,  ah  soon !  shall  fade  our  ills, 
And  fair  across  the  frowning  hills 
Shall  open  heaven's  eternal  glow ! 


IN    SUMMER    DAYS 

HERE  in  the  garden  beautiful, 

0,  Friend  of  the  long  ago, 
The  violets  bloom  in  the  sun-flecked  gloom, 

And  riotous  roses  blow. 
The  lily  swoons  in  its  fragrance, 

And  jasmine  frail  and  sweet 
Clambereth  bold  as  in  days  of  old 

Over  our  rustic  seat. 

364 


AGNES    SHALLOE 

The  bee  is  lazily  scorning 

The  poppy's  scarlet  and  gold, 
And,  idlest  of  things,  a  spider  wings 

Over  the  scented  mold ; 
Crickets  are  blithely  chirping, 

And  a  splendid  butterfly  rests 
Where  the  dragon-fly  sails  slowly  by 

The  syringa's  starry  crests. 

Here  is  the  old  sun-dial ; 

Dear,  on  its  time-worn  face 
'Tis  mine  to  learn  the  message  stern 

Which  the  fleeting  hours  retrace. 
Over  it  wings  the  swallow, 

Beneath  are  the  grasses  wet 
With  silver  dew,  the  moments  through, 

Like  tears  of  the  soul's  regret. 

Thou,  who  art  nearest,  dearest, 

In  thoughts  that  are  sweet  to  pain, 
Come  from  the  deep  of  the  year's  long  sleep, 

Heart  of  my  heart  again ! 
Glad  as  the  spirit  of  summer, 

0  Love,  we  shall  wander  slow, 
As  in  perfumed  haze  of  by-gone  days 

And  bloom  of  the  long  ago. 


365 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


SOPHIE  JEWETT 

(ELLEN  BURROUGHS.) 


SMALL  fellowship  of  daily  commonplace 
We  hold  together,  dear,  constrained  to  go 
Diverging  ways.    Yet  day  by  day  I  know 

My  life  is  sweeter  for  thy  life's  sweet  grace ; 

And  if  we  meet  but  for  a  moment's  space, 

Thy  touch,  thy  word,  sets  all  the  world  aglow. 
Faith  soars   serener,  haunting  doubts  shrink 
low, 

Abashed  before  the  sunshine  of  thy  face. 

Nor  press  of  crowd,  nor  waste  of  distance  serves 
To  part  us.    Every  hush  of  evening  brings 
Some  hint  of  thee,  true-hearted  friend  of  mine ; 

And  as  the  farther  planet  thrills  and  swerves 
When  towards  it  through  the  darkness  Saturn 

swings, 
Even  so  my  spirit  feels  the  spell  of  thine. 

*  From  "  The  Pilgrim  and  other  Poems."    Macmillan  &  Co.,  1896.    All  rights 


SOPHIE    JEWETT 

SIDNEY  LANIER* 

Died  September  7, 1881. 

THE  Southwind  brought  a  voice ;  was  it  of  bird  ? 

Or  faint-blown  reed?    or  string  that  quivered 
long? 

A  haunting  voice  that  woke  into  a  song 
Sweet  as  a  child's  low  laugh,  or  lover's  word. 
We  listened  idly  till  it  grew  and  stirred 

With  throbbing  chords  of  joy,  of  love,  of  wrong ; 

A  mighty  music,  resonant  and  strong ; 
Our  hearts  beat  higher  for  that  voice  far-heard. 

The  Southwind  brought  a  shadow,  purple  dim, 

It  swept  across  the  warm  smile  of  the  sun ; 

A  sudden  shiver  passed  on  field  and  wave ; 
The  grasses  grieved  along  the  river's  brim. 

We  knew  the  voice  was  silent,  the  song  done; 

We  knew  the  shadow  smote  across  a  grave. 

*From  "The  Pilgrim  and  other  Poems."    Macmlllan  &  Co.,  1896.   All  rights 


WALK"* 

IF  spirits  walk,  love,  when  the  night  climbs  slow 
The  slant  footpath  where  we  were  wont  to  go, 
Be  sure  that  I  shall  take  the  selfsame  way 
To  the  hill-crest,  and  shoreward,  down  the  gray, 
Sheer,  graveled  slope,  where   vetches  straggling 
grow. 

367 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Look  for  me  not  when  gusts  of  winter  blow, 
When  at  thy  pane  beat  hands  of  sleet  and  snow ; 
I  would  not  come  thy  dear  eyes  to  affray, 
If  spirits  walk. 

But  when,  in  June,  the  pines  are  whispering  low, 
And  when  their  breath  plays  with  thy  bright  hair 

so 

As  some  one's  fingers  once  were  used  to  play — 
That  hour  when  birds  leave  song,  and  children 

pray, 

Keep  the  old  tryst,  sweetheart,  and  them  shalt 
know 

If  spirits  walk. 

*  From  "  The  Pilgrim  and  other  Poems."    Macmillan  &  Co.,  1896.    All  rights 
reserved. 


"  Non  vi  si  pensa  quanto  sangue  costa." 

Paradiso  XXIX.,  91. 

THE  soldier  fought  his  battle  silently. 

Not  his  the  strife  that  stays  for  set  of  sun ; 

It  seemed  this  warfare  never  might  be  done ; 
Through  glaring  day  and  blinding  night  fought  he. 
There  came  no  hand  to  help,  no  eye  to  see  ; 

No  herald's  voice  proclaimed  the  fight  begun ; 

No  trumpet,  when  the  bitter  field  was  won, 
Sounded  abroad  the  soldier's  victory. 
As  if  the  struggle  had  been  light,  he  went, 

Gladly,  life's  common  road  a  little  space; 

368 


SOPHIE    JEWETT 

Nor  any  knew  how  his  heart's  blood  was  spent ; 
Yet  there  were  some  who  after  testified 

They  saw  a  glory  grow  upon  his  face ; 
And  all  men  praised  the  soldier  when  he  died. 

*  From  "  The  Pilgrim  and  other  Poems.11    Macmillan  &  Co.,  1896.    All  rights 


QUIET  as  are  the  quiet  skies 
He  watches  where  the  city  lies 
Floating  in  visions  clear  or  dim 
Through  sun  or  rain  beneath  his  eyes ; 
Her  songs,  her  laughter,  and  her  cries 
Hour  after  hour  drift  up  to  him. 

Her  days  of  glory  or  disgrace 

He  watches  with  unchanging  face ; 

He  knows  what  midnight  crimes  are  done, 

What  horrors  under  summer  sun ; 

And  souls  that  pass  in  holy  death 

Sweep  by  him  on  the  morning's  breath. 

Alike  to  holiness  and  sin 

He  feels  nor  alien  nor  akin ; 

Five  hundred  creeping  mortal  years 

He  smiles  on  human  joy  and  tears, 

Man-made,  immortal,  scorning  man; 

Serene,  grotesque  Olympian. 

*  From  "  The  Pilgrim  and  other  Poems.11    Macmillan  &  Co.,  1896.    All  rights 
reserved. 

369 


POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
THEODORE  FRANCIS  MACMANUS 

AMERICA,    1901 

0,  CAN'T  you  see  her  standing  at  the  portals  of  the 

world — 
With  her  eager  eyes  exulting  in  the  flag  she's  just 

unfurled, 
The  favorite  of  Fortune,  and  the  mistress  of  the 

Fates, 
The  heir  of  all  the  ages,  flinging  back  the  futile 

gates 
That  frown  upon  her  progress,  and  dispute  the 

mighty  power 
Of   a  goddess  come  to  realize  the  glory  of   her 

dower ! 
She  is  young,  and  she  is  fearless ;  her  heart  is  full 

of  fire, 

And  restless  with  the  urging  of  unsatisfied  desire ; 
She  has  turned  her  back  on  darkness,  and  her  brow 

is  bathed  in  light 
That  shall  stir  the  sodden  sleepers  of  the  lands 

that  live  in  Night ; 
She  will  falter,  she  will  stumble,  she  will  fall,  and 

she  will  sin  — 
She  will  suffer  for  her  folly,  she  will  rise  and  she 

will  Win! 
0,  Thou  who  boldest  nations  in  the  hollow  of  Thy 

hand, 

370 


THEODOEE   FRANCIS   MAcMANUS 

Make  plain  to  us  Thy  purposes,  and  help  us  under 
stand 

The  danger  of  our  daring  and  the  weakness  of  our 
strength  — 

The  law  of  life,  immutable,  which  layeth  low  at 
length 

The  proudest  of  Thy  peoples,  when  pride  and  lust 
combine 

To  rob  Thee  of  the  glory  and  the  tribute  which  is 
Thine! 


A    YULE-TIDE    PLEDGE 

BECAUSE  that  True  Love  in  a  crib  was  born  this 

day, 
Nothing  but  love  I'll  give  to  those  who  cross  my 

way; 

Because  that  True  Love  hath  been  Brother  unto  me, 
Brother  to  all  my  fellow-men  this  day  I'll  be. 

Because  that  True  Love  bore  the  smart  and  sting 
of  cold, 

Nothing  my  heart  contains  of  warmth  will  I  with 
hold;" 

So,  from  my  deepest  heart-of-hearts,  0,  dear  friend, 
take 

My  full-and-free,  unfettered  love,  for  His  sweet  sake. 


371 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
WILLIAM  MCKINLEY 

September  14,  1901. 

HOT  with  the  tears  that  choke  and  blind, 
Bear  with  us,  Lord,  till  we  be  resigned. 
Our  hearts  are  human— he  was  our  chief— 
Bear  with  the  anger  that  mars  our  grief. 
Time !    0,  Lord,  till  the  fight  be  won  — 
Time,  to  falter  "  Thy  will  be  done !  " 

Made  kind  by  sorrow,  with  joy  elate, 
We  had  thought,  0,  Lord,  to  watch  and  wait 
Till  the  mists  of  doubt  had  cleared  away, 
That  we  might  come  to  his  couch  and  say 
1  Son  of  the  people,  arise  and  see 
A  nation  made  one  by  sympathy." 

And  now,  0,  Lord,  we  are  at  his  bier  — 
We  cry  aloud,  but  he  cannot  hear ! 
Our  love  unspoken,  our  message  lost, 
In  heart  and  brain  we  are  tempest-tossed. 
Time!  0,  Lord,  till  the  fight  be  won  — 
Time,  to  falter  "  Thy  will  be  done !  " 


A  PLEDGE !     A   PLEDGE ! 

THE  sound  of  the  drum  and  bugle  we  have  folio  wed 

around  the  world ; 
Aye,  cold  and  stark,  we  have  left  our  mark,  where- 

ever  a  flag's  unfurled ; 

372 


THEODORE   FRANCIS   MAcMANUS 

Was  there  ever  a  wrong  to  be  righted — there  was 

the  eager  Celt  — 
Southern    morass,  or   mountain-pass,  desert,  or 

plain,  or  veldt ; 
Never  a  land  received  us  that  called  for  help  in 

vain; 
We  know  our  debt,  and  we  don't  forget — we  pay 

and  we  pay  again. 
We  were  there  in  rags  and  tatters,  when  Freedom's 

fight  was  won  — 
First  in  the  field,  and  last  to  yield,  with  glorious 

Washington. 
Read  the  rolls  of  the  army— this  is  the  truth  you'll 

glean  — 
In  the  heart  of  the  hell  of  shot  and  shell,  there  was 

the  flag  of  green ! 
Yes,  we  have  been  good  fighters — but  what  of  our 

native  land  ? 
What  have  we  done,  and  what  have  we  won — how 

does  the  record  stand  ? 
We  have  fought  for  our  new-found  kinsman — the 

homes  that  have  made  us  free ; 
Have  we  nothing  left,  for  the  Isle  bereft — our  mother 

beyond  the  sea  ? 
We  have  even  fought  for  England— is  there  nothing 

that  we  can  do 
To  clear  the  stain,  and  prove  again,  that  Irish 

hearts  are  true  ? 
What  shall  we  say  — shall  it  be  a  cheer,  to  the  boys 

we've  left  behind  — 

373 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

A  ringing  cheer  with  a  lurking  tear,  of  the  heart-felt 

Irish  kind  ? 
Aye,  give  it,  lads,  with  all  jour  voice,  and  all  your 

soul-strength  too, 
God   and  the  Right — an   oath  to-night  — come, 

pledge  yourselves  anew ! 


374 


CHARLES   CARROLL   ALBERTSON 


CHARLES  CARROLL  ALBERTSON 


AT  THE   GRAVE  OF  JOHN  BROWN 

CONQUERING  victim ! 
On  thy  pain-scarred  brow 
Laurels  rest  that  kings  might  covet, 
What  is  failure  now  ? 

Strangled  hero ! 
To  thy  tomb,  a  shrine, 
Come  the  children  of  the  freedman, 
Quenchless  fame  is  thine ! 


SATIETY 

CARE-FREE,  I  wandered  in  the  forest  wild, 
With  eyes  all  open  to  the  glorious  Spring, 

For  keen  of  sight  and  sense  is  every  child,  — 
And  I  was  young,  and  Life  was  everything. 

Sated  and  self-absorbed,  I  walk  the  wood  to-day, 
Nor  see  a  flower,  nor  hear  a  thrush's  song, 

Nor  mark  a  single  splendor  in  the  way, 
For  Life  is  worn,  and  Time  is  over-long. 


375 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


CHARLOTTE  ROSALYS  MARTIN 

SPRINGTIME 

LIGHT  and  life  are  everywhere, 
All  the  world  is  passing  fair, 
Bud  and  blossom  scent  the  air. 

Rosy -tinted  is  the  sky, 
Swiftly  flits  a  song-bird  by, 
Perfumed  breezes  dying  sigh. 

Now  o'erhead  the  first  star  gleams, 
Softly  mystical  it  seems, 
Venus,  star  of  Lovers'  dreams ! 


AUTUMN 

BROODING  sadness  everywhere ; 
Murky  darkness  fills  the  air ; 
Lifeless,  gnarled,  the  trees  are  bare. 

Pallid  is  the  bitter  sky ; 
Sudden  sweeps  a  night-bird  by ; 
Hark !  the  shriek-owl's  boding  cry. 

Now  o'erhead  a  meteor  gleams ; 
Portent  dire  its  flashing  beams ; 
Azrael's  falling  star  it  seems. 

376 


WILLARD   E.    KEYES 


WILLAED  E:  KEYES 

ANTICIPATION 

SWEET  rose  and  mignonette 
Deep  in  the  snow  drift  lie ; 

The  yellow-banded  bee 

No  more  goes  blundering  by, 

And  the  bitter  wind  drives  fast 
Beneath  the  low  gray  sky. 

But  ever  as  of  old 

Will  come  the  golden  June, 
And  rose  and  mignonette, 

All  through  the  sultry  noon, 
Will  bask  and  nod  and  drowse, 

Lulled  by  the  bee's  low  tune. 


377 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


WALTER  CLARK  NICHOLS 

AWAKENING 

WITH  brain  o'erworn,  with  heart  a  summer  clod, 
With  eye  so  practised  in  each  form  around— 
And  all  forms  mean— to  glance  above  the  ground 
Irks  it,  each  day  of  many  days  we  plod 
Tongue-tied  and  deaf,  along  life's  common  road ; 
But  suddenly,  we  know  not  how,  a  sound 
Of  living  streams,  an  odor,  a  flower  crowned 
With  dew,  a  lark  upspringing  from  the  sod 
And  we  awake.    0,  joy  of  deep  amaze! 
Beneath  the  everlasting  hills  we  stand, 
We  hear  the  voices  of  the  morning  seas, 
And  earnest  prophesyings  in  the  land, 
While  from  the  open  heaven  leans  forth  at  gaze 
The  encompassing  great  cloud  of  witnesses. 


BACCALAUREATE  HYMN 

Harvard,  June  18,  1893. 

HELP  us,  0  God,  as  we  in  quest 
Of  truth  the  world  roam  through, 

To  know  that  those  men  love  her  best 
Who  to  themselves  are  true. 

Give  us  humility ;  the  sense 
Of  tearful  sorrow  give ; 

378 


WALTER  CLARK  NICHOLS 

Make  Thou  a  noble  permanence 
Of  every  day  we  live. 

We  thank  Thee  for  Thy  nurturing  care, 

Which  we  but  faintly  ken, 
And  murmur  fervently  in  prayer, 

God  grant  that  we  be  men ! 


379 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


HELEN  THAYER  HUTCHESON 

THE  RECLUSE 

Hitherto  unpublished. 

IN  a  hidden  nook  I  lie 
And  the  world's  life  passes  by ; 
Every  tide  of  every  zone 
Brings  me  something  for  my  own ; 
Every  passing  wind  I  glean, 
Lying  in  my  nook  alone, 
Seeing  all  and  all  unseen, 
Knowing  all  and  all  unknown. 

Over  me  from  pole  to  pole 

The  organ's  slumb'rous  surges  roll. 

The  tinkle  of  the  light  guitar 

Sweeps  past  me  like  a  dream  of  sound, 

With  notes  of  bugles  blown  afar 

And  mountain  horns  in  echoing  round, 

And  showers  of  bird-notes  quick  and  true 

Crossed  with  a  dash  of  morning  dew. 

Over  me  from  zone  to  zone 
Subtle  fragrances  are  blown- 
Spice  of  frankincense  and  myrrh, 
Warmth  of  rose  and  balm  of  fir, 
And  a  stronger  breath  than  these 
Spray- wet  from  the  tossing  seas. 

380 


HELEN    THAYER    HUTCHESON 

Round  my  heavens  Day  and  Night 
Follow  on  each  other's  flight ; 
Phantom  crescents  wax  and  waste, 
Storms  sweep  clear  the  vaulted  arch, 
Clouds  their  fleecy  curtains  cast 
O'er  the  planets'  stately  march ; 
Men,  impetuous  and  fierce- willed, 
Here  destroy  and  there  upbuild, 
Wrest  from  Fate  the  World's  command, 
Hold  a  momentary  sway. 
Giant  Time  with  careless  hand 
Blots  the  century  like  a  day ; 
Cities  crumble  into  sand, 
Empires  lie  in  vast  decay, 
And  the  unchanging  stars  look  down 
On  the  unchanging  mountain  crown. 


Human  hearts  that  laugh  and  mourn, 

Love  and  labor,  hate  and  scorn, 

My  involuntary  arm 

Moves  to  shield  them  from  alarm. 

And  I  reach  my  hand  to  bless, 

And  I  smile  because  they  smile, 

And  I  thrill  with  their  distress, 

And  I  mock  myself  the  while, 

For  I  am  amid  the  host 

Like  an  unem bodied  ghost, 

And  as  heedlessly  they  pass 

Their  own  shadow  in  the  glass. 

381 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

In  my  hidden  nook  I  lie 
And  the  world's  life  passes  by, 
And  the  world's  death  at  my  feet 
Lies  like  ashes  lacking  heat. 

Hearts  whose  fire  did  warm  the  past ; 
'Twixt  your  pulses'  troubled  beat, 
And  their  stillness  here  at  last, 
—And  their  stillness  here,— there  lie 
Worlds  of  question  —  no  reply. 


THE  UNWELCOME  THOUGHT 

Hitherto  unpublished. 

OH  !  sullied  summer,  quickly  close 

And  all  that  saw  it,  cease  to  be ! 
And  drop  your  last  leaf,  ragged  rose ! 

Between  my  thorny  thought  and  me. 

And  hasten,  world,  upon  your  way 

Till  other  stars  upon  us  shine ! 
And  night  and  day  and  March  and  May 

Divide  me  from  that  thought  of  mine ! 

And  strange  grow  all  I  knew  of  late 

So  this  one  thought  may  grow  as  strange! 

Change,  Hope  and  Hate!  change,  Faith  and  Fate! 
Change,  Clime  and  Time  and  all  things,  change ! 

And  give  the  goodlier  being  birth 

To  tread  our  grass-grown  grave-scars  o'er, 
And  say,  "In  this  primeval  earth 

There  never  throbbed  a  thought  before." 

382 


HELEN    THAYEE    HUTCHESON 

THE    WOOD-MAID 

WHY  will  ye  bring  me  your  bold,  brown  faces, 
Crowned  with  the  leaves  of  my  plundered  wood  ? 

Why  will  ye  lurk  in  the  low,  leafy  places, 
Peering  and  jeering,  and  wooing  me  rude? 

You  frighten  the  bee  from  the  linden  blossom, 
The  doe  in  the  dell,  and  the  shy  wood-dove, 

The  hare  in  its  haunt,  and  the  heart  in  my  bosom, 
With  all  your  talking  of  love,  love,  love. 

Here  I  live  merry  until  you  beset  me ; 

What  the  birds  sow  is  the  harvest  I  reap. 
Here  I  live  merry  till  you  come  to  fret  me ; 

The  heart  in  my  bosom  I  keep  safe  asleep. 

With  the  wit  of  your  words  to  your  will   you 

would  bind  me 

As  you  bind  the  wings  of  the  meek  wood-dove ; 
In  a  snare,  like  a  hare,  you  would  wound  me  and 

wind  me, 
And  bind  me  to  the  service  of  love,  love,  love. 

Is  love  as  sweet  as  the  bloom  the  bee  knoweth  ? 

Is  love  as  deep  as  the  deep  streams  run  ? 
Is  love  as  pure  as  the  wind  when  it  bloweth  ? 

Is  love  as  true  as  the  shining  of  the  sun  ? 

I'll  loose  my  locks  to  the  free  wind's  blowing, 
I'll  give  my  cheek  to  the  sun  and  the  rain, 

I'll  give  my  image  to  the  clear  stream's  showing, 
But  I'll  not  give  my  lips  to  the  lips  of  a  swain. 

383 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Go  hunt  the  bee  with  the  sweet  spoil  laden ! 

Go  hunt  the  hare,  and  the  doe,  and  the  dove ! 
Come  not  a-hunting  a  poor,  merry  maiden 

With  all  jour  mocking  of  love,  love,  love. 

Come,  Wind,  kiss  me !  kiss  and  forsake  not ! 

Smile  to  my  smiling,  thou  constant  Sun ! 
Heart  in  my  bosom,  wrake  not,  wake  not, 

Till  streams  in  the  forest  forget  to  run ! 


384 


ELIZABETH    FLINT    WADE 


ELIZABETH  FLINT  WADE 

THE  OLD  STONE  STEPS  AT  CAPKI 

UP,  up  the  steep  and  rugged  stairs  we  climb 
This  rock-hewn  path  that  has  for  ages  been 
Worn  by  the  ceaseless  tread  of  many  feet. 
The  way  is  long,  and  wearisome,  and  rough, 
Yet  onward,  upward  press  we  eagerly 
Toward  breezy  heights,  toward  tranquil  fields  and 

green. 

Above  our  heads,  clinging  to  niche  and  cleft, 
Hang  gorgeous  blossoms  fragrant  with  perfume ; 
We  reach,  but  strive  in  vain  e'en  one  to  grasp, 
The  wind-tossed  branches  just  elude  our  touch. 
Half  up  the  stairs  nestles  a  little  shrine 
Cut  in  the  stone.    We  stay  our  steps  and  pause 
Beside  this  silent  monitor  and  grave, 
And  gird  ourselves  afresh  for  greater  toil. 

See  how  yon  lusty  youth  springs  up  the  steps, 
His  strong  and  sinewy  frame  knows  no  fatigue. 
Behind  him  toils  a  worn  and  aged  man 
Bent  with  the  burden  and  the  weight  of  years. 
Matron  and  maid,  gay  youth  and  sober  age, 
Jostle  each  other  on  these  old  stone  steps, 
Seeking  the  self -same  goal,— the  distant  peak. 

The  summit  gained,  before  the  vision  lies 
A  glorious  scene,  radiant  with  sunset's  glow. 

385 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Borne  on  the  evening  breeze,— now  near,  now  far,— 

The  chiming  of  the  monastery  bells 

Ringing  the  Angelas  falls  on  the  ear. 

Far  in  the  south  lies  beauteous  Sicily. 

Its  shining  shores  seen  through  the  silvery  mist 

Seem  like  the  outlines  of  some  fairer  world. 

Beneath  us  ebbs  and  flows  the  restless  tide,  — 

A  liquid  turquoise  barrier  it  lies 

'Twixt  us  and  yonder  bright  Elysian  fields. 

How  like  unto  life's  highway  seems  this  steep 
And  stony  path  with  wayworn  pilgrims  thronged. 
The  flowers  that  mock  us  just  above  our  heads, 
Are  fleeting  pleasures  which  we  idly  seek. 
The  shrine  and  resting  place,  some  joyous  day 
Marked  in  the  mem'ry  writh  a  pure  white  stone. 
The  height,  the  place  we  hope  at  last  to  gain,— 
The  end  of  strife,  and  toil,  and  sorrow's  stroke. 
The  restless  waves  beneath  us  typify 
The  eternal  current  of  that  other  sea 
Whose  tide,  rolling  still  nearer  and  more  near, 
One  day  shall  sweep  us  from  the  shores  of  Time, 
And  carry  us  to  fairer,  sweeter  lands 
Than  eye  hath  seen,  or  heart  of  man  conceived. 


THE    WILLOW 

OVER  the  stream  leans  a  willow  old, 

Sentinel  there  for  years  untold, 

Through  sultry  summers  and  winters  cold. 


ELIZABETH    FLINT    WADE 

Moved  by  the  winds  of  the  autumn  day, 
Its  gray-green  branches  swing  and  sway, 
Backward  and  forth  in  a  rhythmic  way. 

The  waters  ripple  and  swirl  below, 

But  pause  not,  nor  stay  in  their  onward  flow ; 

Whence  have  they  come  ?    And  where  do  they  go  ? 

Willow  and  stream !    Like  mortals  are  they, 
One  must  go  and  the  other  must  stay ; 
This  is  the  riddle  of  life  for  aye. 


387 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
BLANCHE  ELIZABETH  WADE 

NIGHT  AND   PEACE 

THE  convent  walls  are  dim  and  gray 

In  the  young  moon's  light  so  softly  beaming ; 

The  great  bell's  voice  has  ceased  to  pray 

For  the  world  that  lies  asleep  and  dreaming. 

A  dusky  bat  bends  silent  wing 

Through  the  belfry  shadows  darkly  stealing, 
And  far  below  the  crickets  sing 

In  their  plaintive  tones  of  tender  feeling. 

A  lonely  night-hawk  sadly  calls ; 

On  the  evening  wind,  in  tree-tops  sighing, 
The  mournful  owl's  note  rises,  falls, 

As  home  to  woodland  nest  she's  flying. 

The  chapel  altar  lights  burn  dim, 

And  a  nun  asks  peace  upon  the  sleeping, — 

Nor  pleads  in  vain  that  peace  of  Him 

Who  without,  within,  His  watch  is  keeping. 

A    SUMMER    NOON 

HUSHED  is  the  wild  bird's  note ;  he  doth  not  sing, 
Nor  floats  his  love  call  forth  from  flowering 

bough ; 
Too  weary  he  for  melody  — see  how 

388 


BLANCHE    ELIZABETH    WADE 

He  listlessly  doth  droop  his  languid  wing. 

The  saucy  bumble-bee  forgets  to  sting 

A  chance  intruder  mischief  bent,  and  now 

In  drowsy  slumber  dreams.    Oh,  bee,  'tis  thou 

Art  laziest  of  creatures ;  buzzing  thing, 

For  once  thy  busy  wings  are  silent.    Yea, 
A  butterfly  in  safety  hovers  nigh, 
Nor  fears  thy  noisy  hum  this  sunny  noon, 

But  pauses  near  to  feast,  — ah,  well-a-day ! 

He,  too,  heeds  naught,  for  fast  asleep  doth  lie 
Another  victim  of  thy  spell,  fair  June ! 


WHAT   DO   SHEPHERDS   THINK  f 

WHEN  shepherds,  o'er  their  fluffy  sheep 
Through  long,  long  hours  their  watches  keep 
And  see  the  little  lambkins  leap, 

0,  what  do  shepherds  think  ? 

Out  where  the  bees  in  blossoms  hide ; 
Where  soft  grass  grows  on  every  side, 
And  where  the  sky  is  —  0,  so  wide ! 
0,  what  do  shepherds  think  ? 

Where  little  birds  sing  all  day  long 
The  very  sweetest  kind  of  song ; 
Where  all  is  good,  and  nothing  wrong, 
0,  what  do  shepherds  think? 

389 


POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  when  the  stars  shine  out  so  bright, 
With  such  a  silvery  sort  of  light — 
Out  in  the  dewy  fields  at  night, 

0,  what  do  shepherds  think? 

Do  they  think  how,  once,  long  ago, 
Those  other  shepherds  saw  the  glow 
That  led  them  to  that  Manger  low  — 
Of  this  do  shepherds  think  ? 

And  are  they  glad  they're  shepherds,  too, 
Out  in  the  fields  the  whole  night  through, 
And  do  they  love  that  Baby  true? 

0,  what  do  shepherds  think  ? 


390 


FRANCES    HUBBARD    LARKIN 


FRANCES  HUBBARD  LARKIN 


FOR  MY  FATHER  8  EIGHTY-FIRST   BIRTHDAY 

WHAT  need  ha.ve  I,  his  child, 

To  plead  in  tears 
For  one  who  has  "walked  softly" 

Through  all  these  years? 
But  if  to  me  one  prayer 

Were  given  to-day, 
"  Deal  gently  with  my  father,  Lord ! " 

I'd  sav. 


391 


POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


CYPRESS  SPURGE 


WHY  did  you  run  out  from  her  garden  fair, 
When  the  colony  dame  first  brought  you  there, 
And  grow  by  the  wayside  with  none  to  care  ? 
You've  crept  through  fences,  and  under  the  wall, 
You've  grown  by  gray  bridges  and  headstones  tall, 
You've  planted  your  feet  on  the  graves  of  all, 
The  grandsires  brave  and  loved  maiden  young, 
But  never  a  song  to  you  they  have  sung ! 

Oh !  dear  old  green  moss  with  milk  for  your  blood, 
Came  you  to  earth  first,  soon  after  the  flood  ? 
No  more  in  green  gardens  these  days  you  grow, 
They  say  you've  escaped  — I  think  'tis  so. 
I'll  place  you  here,  if  but  for  one  day — 
Grandma's  old-time  flower— so  long  away. 


392 


EMILY    M.    HOWARD 


EMILY  M.   HOWARD 

THE    FIRST    ROBIN 

March  23, 1890— Fifth  Sunday  in  Lent. 

WHY  hast  thou  come  to  greet  the  spring  so  soon, 

My  blissful  one,  who  with   stout   heart   and 
bold- 

Like  an  unlooked-for  joy  when  life  is  cold  — 
Choirest  thy  soul  to  this  chill  twilight  moon  ? 
Ungently  on  thee  looked  this  day,  whose  noon 

Scattered   the   whirling   snows   on   field    and 
wold ;  — 

While  yet  the  crocus  hides  his  vernal  gold 
W"hy  to  these  winds  thy  voice  of  May  attune? 
As  yet  the  trees  their  Lenten  vesture  wear, 

And  no  shy  bud  looks  up  from  any  bough ; 

Then  why  with  thy  rejoicings  breakest  thou 
The  hushed  earth's  silent,  penitential  prayer  ? 

And  with  thy  seraph  voice  why  challenge  now 
The  pagan  Winter's  unabsolved  despair  ? 


THE    TRANSPLANTED    TREE 

AT  dawn  of  early  spring,  when  all  hearts  turn 
To  greet  anew — perchance  with  tears  unseen  — 
The  old  Love's  April  face— ere  buds  are  green, 

Or  hope  can  yet  the  crocus  blade  discern,  — 

393 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Thy  new  leaf  putting  forth,  still  dost  thou  yearn 
To  stand  again  among  thy  woodland  peers, 
And  see  once  more,  as  in  thy  sapling  years, 

The  ruddy  trillium  hail  the  folded  fern  ? 

Still  dost  thou  listen,  through  the  noisy  rush 
Of  times  and  men,— the  voices  of  the  street— 

For  melodies  that  thrilled  the  breathing  hush 
Of  far-off,  long-remembered  springs,  — the  sweet 

And  shy  confession  of  the  hermit  thrush,  — 
The  secrets  of  the  mosses  at  thy  feet  ? 


CRIMSON  POPPIES 

THEY  ask  not  length  of  days,  nor  deemed  unkind 
The  fate  that  cut  their  thread  of  life  so  soon  ; 
They  asked  no  longer  than  one  ardent  noon 

The  whole  of  life's  brief  blessedness  to  find. 

As  those  that  dreamed,  awhile  their  heads  they  bent 
To  drain  the  sweet  of  Time's  too  shallow  cup, 
And  on  the  edge  of  day  they  gathered  up 

Their  scarlet  robes,  and  went  their  way  content. 

They  passed,— yet  went  rejoicing  on  their  way 
To  meet  mortality,  though  still  divine; 

For  one  was  near  more  potent  than  decay, 

And  well  they  knew,  0  Love,  that  they  were 
thine ; 

Nor  hoped  in  vain,  for  all  that  own  thy  sway 
Are  blest,  though  soon  or  late  be  life's  decline. 

394 


DAVID    GRAY,    JR. 


DAVID  GRAY,  JR. 

(Undergraduate  verses,  1892  and  previous.) 
EXPERIENCE 

SHADOW  of  dead  Yesterday, 
Turn  thy  cynic  look  away ; 
Chill  not  this  young  atmosphere 
Of  the  morning  that  is  here 
With  thy  cold  prophetic  eyes 
Hinting  at  the  mysteries 
Of  to-morrow  — Let  to-day 
Be  itself,  the  first  of  May ! 
Nothing,  either  less  or  more, 
As  there  were  no  May  before ! 
Hush  thee,  memory !  Tell  us  not 
Of  the  passing  of  the  rose ; 
'  Tis  enough  it  buds  and  blows 
Making  fair  a  barren  spot. 
Keep  thy  numbing  lore  for  hearts, 
Stranger  to  the  dumb  desires 
Born  when  Morning  walks  the  peaks 
Laden  with  Auroral  fires, 
When  all  cloud-land  blushes  rose 
And  the  heart  in  rapture  glows. 
Launch  the  fancy  free  to  float 
Like  a,  gleaming  bubble  boat 
Bearing  airily  the  soul 
Toward  that  far  ecstatic  pole 
Where  the  heart's  own  paradise 
Is  pictured  to  the  sleep-sealed  eyes. 

395 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

GREEK  CYTHERIA 

CYTHERIA,  when  May  breezes  play 
O'er  Attic  hillsides  cjad  with  vine, 
I'd  toss  aside  the  Stoic's  bay 
And  wear  the  garland  which  is  thine ! 

The  rose  fades  ere  the  laurel  spray, 
But  Ah !  the  flower  incarnadine 
With  sweetness  doth  its  death  repay ! 
The  rose  thy  symbol  is  and  mine ! 

Let  Fame  point  out  the  Hero's  way 
Up  Glory's  height,  I'll  not  repine, 
But  when  the  pipes  at  harvest  play 
Give  me  the  paths  among  the  vine ; 

And  there,  rose  crowned,  the  livelong  day, 
I'd  reap  the  corn  and  tread  the  wine 
And  weave  thy  choric  dances  gay, 
And  dream  at  noon  in  groves  of  pine. 


ANSWER,  GIRL! 

THE  rose  that  in  the  sun  has  blown 

Can  it  fold  in  the  bud  again 

And  gather  in  the  fragrance  flown 

When  June  coquettes  and  frowns  in  rain  ? 

Or  can  the  heart  that  once  was  stone 
And  by  Love's  alchemy  was  ta'en, 
Can  it  forget  what  it  has  known  ? 
Can  it  become  a  stone  again  ? 

396 


DAVID    GRAY,   JR. 

TROJAN  HELEN 

NIGHT  wind  sweep  thy  lyre  and  play, 

Play  of  Helen,  sing  her  woes ; 

Make  a  murmured  Helen  sway 

The  cradled  slumbers  of  the  rose ! 

Night  wind  from  the  classic  sea 

Who  with  moon  ensilvered  lips 

Murmurs  of  the  Grecian  ships, 

Raise  thy  ancient  monody ; 

Bear  Her  name  upon  thy  wings 

Through  the  cloisters  of  the  wood, 

Past  the  spirit-haunted  springs 

Where  the  moon-made  shadows  brood. 

Breathe  it  o'er  the  moss- wrapped  shrines 

In  the  porches  of  the  pines, 

And  the  long-stilled  harmonies 

Of  Homeric  days  will  stir, 

Stir  again  and  seem  to  rise 

New  and  wonderful  and  wise 

In  the  loveliness  of  Her, 

Helen,  in  whose  sybil  eyes 

Sleep  the  world-old  mysteries. 


ON  LEAVING    COLLEGE 

0  DAYS  without  a  shadow  that  was  stern ! 
0  pleasant  vale  of  Time,  this  side  the  sea 
That  spreads  before  its  pathless  mystery ; 
In  how  fair  regions  have  I  made  sojourn ! 

397 


POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  from  what  gentle  company  I  turn  — 
Ye  old-time  dreams,  what  pleasant  folk  ye  be !  — 
To  Emmaus,  0  Youth,  I've  walked  with  thee 
The  while  my  heart  did  all  unwitting  burn ! 
Now  has  the  morning  sun  this  realm  passed  o'er ; 
To  lands  beyond  the  sea  the  westing  light 
Moves  on — my  little  boat  waits  on  the  shore 
To  follow  till  the  shore  sinks  from  the  sight. 
Shapes  of  To-day,  so  soon  To-day  no  more ! 
The   hour   is   come  — Good-night,    sweet   friends, 
Good-night ! 


398 


IEVING    S.    UNDERBILL 


IRVING  S.  UNDERBILL 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  TRIO 

DOROTHEA,  Dorothy, 
Sweet,  my  darling  Dora, 
She's  a  veritable  rose, 
The  fairest  of  the  flora. 

When  she's  haughty,  when  provoked, 
When  inclined  to  be  a 
Trifle  of  the  flirt  with  me, 
Then  she's  Dorothea. 

Maiden  in  her  tennis  gown 
Radiant  as  Aurora, 
Laughing  with  all  keen  delight 
In  the  sport,  that's  Dora. 

But  when  tete-a-tete  we're  seated, 
Whispering  commonplaces, 
Filling  in  with  dearer  thoughts 
Conversation's  spaces, 

When  I'm  sure,  of  women  all, 

One  is  all  to  me, 

Would  you  know  that  wondrous  one  ? 

She  is  Dorothy. 


399 


POETS   AND   POETKY   OF   BUFFALO 

DORA'S  EYES 

Two  images  those  lights  once  caught 

Of  stars  which,  though  for  ages  taught 

To  sport  in  rivulet  or  lake 

Or  sea  or  ocean,  by  mistake 

Dived  down  into  the  dewy  deeps 

Of  Dora's  Eyes.    And  still  she  keeps 

Them  prisoners,  caught  fast  I  think 

A-napping  by  a  sudden  wink 

That  snapped  the  cords,  the  mystic  tie 

That  bound  the  vagrants  to  the  sky. 


TO  HIM,   TO  HER 

THEY  sit  in  hammock  swinging, 
The  birds  their  notes  are  singing ; 
A  rustling  in  the  leaves  overhead 
Is  Cupid's  tread 
To  him ; 
To  her 
A  rustling  in  the  leaves  o'erhead. 

They  watch  the  heaving  ocean, 
He  swears  a  life's  devotion. 
A  murmuring  as  the  winds  pass  by 
Is  Cupid's  sigh 

To  him ; 

To  her 
A  murmuring  as  the  winds  pass  by. 

400 


IRVING    S.    UNDERHILL 

His  vow  to  live  in  hermit's  den, 
(That  same  old  fiction  told  again) 
A  broken  heart  and  all  the  rest 
Is  Cupid's  jest 
To  her ; 
To  him 
A  broken  heart  and  all  the  rest. 


A   LONG-DRAWN  SIGH 

IN  all  those  gentle  ways  some  trick 

Of  Nature  did  confide  to  her ; 
In  true  nobility  of  heart 

Which  may  not  be  denied  to  her, 
And  in  the  play  of  coquetry 

That  now  and  then  conceals  it ; 
In  half  unspoken  sympathy 

So  subtle  yet  one  feels  it, 

In  all  her  merry  flights  of  gladness, 

In  all  that  rippling  laughter, 
The  pleased  glance,  the  touch  of  sadness 

In  the  look  that  lingers  after ; 
In  all  that  honest  dignity 

That  wreathes  a  crown  above  her 
There  is  such  sweet  congruity 

That  how  could  I  but  love  her ! 


401 


POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
HANNAH  G.  FERNALD 

ON    ARBOR    DAY 

"I  WONDER,"  said  the  little  nut, 

"  What  I  am  going  to  be ! " 
The  sunshine  whispered  overhead, 

"You'd  better  grow  and  see !  " 
He  sent  two  tender  leaflets  up 

Amidst  the  crowding  grass. 
"It's  stuffy  underground ! "  he  cried, 

" Please  won't  you  let  me  pass?  " 
Then  Robbie  saw  him  standing  there 

And  carried  him  away. 
"I've  found  the  dearest  thing,"  said  he ; 

"My  tree  for  Arbor  day ! 
He'll  need  a  long,  long  time  to  grow, 

He's  very  small,  you  see ; 
But  by  the  time  that  I'm  a  man 

He'll  make  a  splendid  tree ! 
Perhaps  then  I'll  be  President  — 

I  wonder  what  I'll  be !" 
The  sunshine  whispered  low  to  both, 

"You'd  better  grow  and  see!  " 

By  permission  of  The  Youth's  Companion,  April  28,  1904. 


402 


JESSIE    STORRS    FERRIS 


JESSIE  STORKS  FERRIS 


THE   DEAF  BEETHOVEN 

A  SPIRITUAL  giant !  though  the  cells 

Where  beat  the  surging  sound-waves  silent  grew 
Ere  yet  his  passionate  youth  had  lost  the  dew 
And  song  of  morning,  and  the  unplumbed  wells 
Of  secret  bitterness  uprose.    A  thousand  hells 
Of  thwarted  purpose  burst  upon  him.    You 
Whose   sentient   ear   is   pierced   through   and 

through 

Each  day  with  music,  can  you  think  what  bells 
Broke  the  vast,  piteous  silence  of  that  brain, 
Magnificent  in  failure,  yet  whose  pain 
Bore  children  of  a  ki uglier  growth  than  sound 
Had  yet  conceived  ?    His  chord  an  echo  found 
That   soothed   the   world's   eternal,    troubled 

breath, 
Then  rose  and  shook  the  very  doors  of  death. 


THE   FIREFLY 

HE  glows  within  the  braided  net 
That  Twilight  wove  of  heat  and  dark, 
And  o'er  the  meadows,  dewy-wet, 
And  through  the  grasses  of  the  park 

403 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

He  leads  the  dance  with  taper-spark ; 
Then  suddenly  he  fades  from  sight, 
As  upward  floats  the  Moon's  bright  barque,— 
A  vanished  jewel  of  the  Night. 


THE   LIFE   NATURAL 

THE  gods  are  not  all  dead :  here  'mong  the  hills 

Is  air  ambrosial,  and  the  tangy  sweet 

Of  strawberries  is  nectar  all  enough. 

We  hunt  the  furtive  game,  and  on  the  banks 

Of  mountain  torrents  cast  our  baited  line, 

Then  lay  us  down  beneath  the  quiet  stars 

To  sleep  unbroken  and  to  innocent  dreams. 

The  keen,  bright  air  and  utter  stillness  bind 

Undreamed-of  peace  about  our  tired  brows ; 

And  that  fierce  life  that  dwells  in  all  of  us 

Springs  up  at  last  —  a  ringing  sword,  unsheathed 

From  the  strait  scabbard  of  our  fevered  life. 

The  Youth  we  thought  had  withered,  scorched 

Faith, 

Too  delicate  for  the  hot  breath  of  the  world, 
And  prismic  Hope,  that  lodgment  never  finds 
But  in  pure  hearts  of  simple  trustfulness, 
And  Reverence,  that  long  had  buried  been, 
And  Love  we  thought  had  taken  winged  flight, 
Leaving  a  train  of  evil  birds  behind,— 
All,  all  came  back,  here  in  the  changeless  hills. 

404 


JESSIE    STORES    FERRIS 

We  breathe,  we  move  as  beings  born  again, 
And  that  elusive  thing  named  Happiness 
That  we  had  hunted  up  and  down  the  world, 
Flees  from  us  not  again,  but  sweetly  stays 
And  makes  our  lives  a  poem  of  Rest  and  Use. 


MY  BOAT  AND  I 

MY  boat  and  I  are  comrades  true  and  tried, 

Beneath  the  zenith  sun  or  cooling  moon, 

O'er  glancing  streams  and  splendid  seas  we  ride. 

Through  water-gates  all  lily-choked  we  glide, 
Past  secret  fens,  where  laughs  the  maniac  loon, — 
My  boat  and  I  are  comrades  true  and  tried. 

Our  oar  knows  well  where  the  kingfishers  hide, 
And  well  it  loves  the  long  shore's  slumberous  croon; 
O'er  glancing  streams  and  splendid  seas  we  ride. 

When  we  are  weary,  then  we  fain  would  slide 
Within  the  bars  of  some  sand-locked  lagoon,— 
My  boat  and  I  are  comrades  true  and  tried. 

But  when  the  day  is  young,  our  course  is  wide 
O'er  salt-lipped  waves  that  roar  a  hungry  tune, — 
O'er  glancing  streams  and  splendid  seas  we  ride. 

Would  we  could  float  forever  on  this  tide 
Of  care-free  days  that  vanish  all  too  soon ! 
My  boat  and  I  are  comrades  true  and  tried, 
O'er  glancing  streams  and  splendid  seas  we  ride. 

405 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


EDITH  EATON  CUTTEK 

A  FACE 

THE  face  of  one  who  asked  for  bread, 

And  asking  so  received  a  stone ; 
Of  one,  to  Faith  and  Hope,  who  fled 

Till  Faith  and  Hope  were  dead  and  gone. 

Of  one  who  stretched  confiding  hands 

Toward  all  the  joys  that  life  should  give ; 

Of  one  who  found  in  weary  lands 
How  little  comes  to  all  who  live. 

The  face  of  one,  when  all  else  failed, 
Who  turned  to  Love  and  felt  secure, 

Though  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Joy  had  paled, 
That  Love,  great  Love,  would  still  endure. 

The  face  of  one,  when  all  was  said, 

Who  turned  with  blankness  in  her  eyes ; 

The  face  of  one,  when  Love  was  dead, 
Who  felt  that  he  might  never  rise. 

And  yet  a  face  whose  grand  unrest 
Ennobled  those  by  whom  'tis  known, 

And  casts  a  spell  of  Peace  confessed 
Which  Life  shall  never  make  its  own. 


406 


EDITH    EATON    CUTTER 

MILK-WEED 

A  STRETCH  of  dusty  country  road 
With  harvest  sunshine  over  all, 
A  vine-grown  bit  of  crumbling  wall 

By  seas  of  goldenrod  o'erflowed, 
And  milk- weed  tall. 

The  wiry  stems  bear  high  their  prize 
Of  yellowing  pods,  that  break  almost 
With  swelling  hearts,  and  yield  their  ghost 

When  the  last  daisy  droops  and  dies 
At  touch  of  frost. 

A  branch  of  milk-weed  tall  and  straight, 
In  classic  vase  of  clouded  white 
Stands  glinting  in  the  firelight, 

With  shifting  shadows  alternate, 
This  winter's  night. 

Now  pent  within  the  curtained  gloom, 
Impatient  in  their  white  despair, 
These  little  captive  spirits  dare 

To  flutter  wild  across  the  room 
At  breath  of  air. 

They,  restless,  long,  through  wintry  cold 
To  seek  that  strip  of  wind-swept  close, 
To  rest  where  fell  the  bramble  rose, 

Beside  the  daisy's  heart  of  gold 
Beneath  the  snows. 


407 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


A  PICTURE  OF  MILLAIS' 


QUAINT  little  maid  in  the  carven  frame, 
Looking  out  from  the  pictured  gloom 
Into  the  silent  shadowed  room, 

With  eyes  whose  question  is  still  the  same  — 

An  artist's  brush,  with  bold  caprice, 

Has  caught  you  out  from  a  century  past, 
And  on  the  canvas  pinioned  fast, 

You  are  captive  held  in  an  endless  peace. 

The  misty  lights  of  those  far-off  days 
Still  linger  round  you,  it  would  seem, 
And  like  the  shadows  of  a  dream 

They  struggle  out  from  unknown  space. 

The  surging  tides  of  this  mortal  life 
That  perfect  calm  can  never  mar ; 
But  faintly  echoed  from  afar, 

You  catch  the  sound  of  the  distant  strife. 

The  flight  of  years,  with  careless  ruth 
Can  never  brush  you  with  their  wings  — 
In  Art,  and  Art  alone,  there  springs 

The  fountain  of  eternal  youth. 


408 


ARTHUR    DETMERS 


ARTHUR  DETMERS 

A  DAILY   PRAYER 

To  grow  a  little  wiser  day  by  day,- 

To  school  my  mind  and  body  to  obey, 

To  keep  my  inner  life  both  clean  and  strong, 

To  free  my  lips  from  guile,  my  hands  from  wrong, 

To  shut  the  door  on  hate  and  scorn  and  pride, 

To  open,  then,  to  love  the  windows  wide, 

To  meet  with  cheerful  heart  what  comes  to  me, 

To  turn  life's  discords  into  harmony, 

To  share  some  weary  worker's  heavy  load, 

To  point  some  straying  comrade  to  the  road, 

To  know  that  what  I  have  is  not  my  own, 

To  feel  that  I  am  never  quite  alone— 

This  would  I  pray 

From  day  to  day, 

For  then  I  know 

My  life  will  flow 

In  peace  until 

It  be  God's  will 
I  go. 

1901. 


409 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


ANNE  MURRAY  LARNED 

SUNBEAMS 

THE  sunbeams  get  up  early, 
While  we  are  still  in  bed, 

And  dance  upon  the  meadow, 
Where  dewy  webs  are  spread. 

They  flit  among  the  tree-tops, 
And  wake  each  drowsy  bird, 

Then  slip  into  the  woods  below 
Before  a  flower  has  stirred. 

And  long  before  we  waken 
Their  early  work  is  through ; 

They  breakfast  in  the  meadow 
Off  brimming  cups  of  dew. 


RAINDROPS 

You  may  hear  us  on  your  window  when  you  go  to 

bed  at  night, 
And  dancing  on  the  housetops  when  you  waken 

with  the  light. 

And  when  you  skip  away  to  school  we  pelt  you  as 

you  run,— 
If  we  should  chance  to  wet  you,  you  know  it's 

only  fun. 

410 


ANNE    MURRAY    LARNED 

It's  such  a  happy  life  we  live,  with  naught  to  make 

us  fret ; 
We  never  have  to  stay  indoors  because  it  is  so 

wet! 

And  yet  life  isn't  always  play ;  there's  work  to  do, 

you  know, — 
We  have  to  wash  the  whole  world  clean,  and  make 

the  sweet  flowers  grow. 

But  when  our  work  is  over  comes  the  time  we  like 

the  best, 
When  we're  lifted  up  and  put  away  in  a  great  soft 

cloud  to  rest. 


SCANDAL 

"  Eadern  nocte  accidit,  ut  Luna  plena  asset."—  Caesar. 

THE  wind  just  breathed  it  to  the  pine, 
Who  shook  her  head  and  sighed ; 

And  then  she  told  it  to  the  oak, 
Who  said  the  wind  had  lied. 

But,  all  the  same,  he  told  the  ash, 
Who  told  the  willow  tree ; 

And  so  it  passed  along  the  line 
Until  it  came  to  me. 

I  heard  it  from  the  speckled  trout, 
Who  had  it  from  the  pool ; 

And  this  is  how  the  story  ran : 
Last  night  the  moon  was  full! 

411 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


ROSE  MILLS  POWERS 

SONG 

OH,  Love  in  youth  is  brave  as  Mars  — 

Sing,  sweetheart,  sing  with  me ! 
He  walks  with  head  amid  the  stars 

And  feet  upon  the  sea, 
And  thinketh  thoughts  as  deep, 
As  deep  — 

As  all  eternity ! 
But  Love,  grown  old,  spurs  not  apace, 

But  homeward  wends  his  way ; 
The  world  has  grown  a  weary  place 

And  Love  is  spent  and  gray ; 
God  grant  him  there  one  fond  sweet  face 

To  cheer  the  end  of  day ! 
One  fond  and  faithful  face, 
Sweetheart— 

To  cheer  the  end  of  day ! 


PRESCIENCE 

LOVE,  hear  the  burden  of  my  prayer : 
Twill  not  be  always  thine  to  woo, 

And  lifeless  fingers  have  no  care 
If  laid  therein  be  rose  or  rue. 

412 


ROSE    MILLS    POWERS 

Love,  hear  the  burden  of  my  prayer : 
Give  me  to-day  to  hear  thee  vow 

How  dear  my  eyes,  my  lips,  my  hair, 
Nor  wait  for  Death  to  teach  thee  how. 

Love,  hear  the  burden  of  my  prayer : 
Lock  me  to-day  in  thy  embrace ! 

Too  late  when  shining  candles  flare 
To  rain  thy  kisses  on  my  face ! 

Love,  hear  the  burden  of  my  prayer : 
Walk  with  me  gently  down  the  days, 

Lest  Death  come  on  us,  unaware, 
And  point  the  parting  of  the  ways. 


413 


POETS   AND   POETRY    OF   BUFFALO 


SARAH  EVANS  LETCHWORTH 

MY  MADONNA 

THE  radiance  of  the  sunset  wings  the  sky, 

Its  glories  linger  loath  to  leave  her  hair ; 

The  gift  of  motherhood  has  made  so  fair 

The  girlish  features  of  my  wife,  that  I 

Half  think  some  angel  touched  her,  passing  by. 

Her  eyes  are  bent  upon  the  child  in  prayer ; 

Her  arms  enfold  him  close,  as  though  she  dare 

Not  have  him  distant  from  her  bosom  lie. 

Dark  lashes  rest  above  the  cheeks  yet  pale 

From  danger  and  the  weariness  of  pain, 

But  joy  will  charm  the  roses  back  again, 

And  through  bemisted  vision,  here  I  see 

A  miracle  of  love  that  can  not  fail. 

I  bend  my  head  and  worship  silently. 


414 


EMILY    ROWLAND    LEEMING 


EMILY  ROWLAND  LEEMING 

LOVE    STANDS    AND    WAITS 

LOVE  stands  and  waits  by  night  and  day, 
With  pleading  eyes  and  lips  that  say, 
"Hard-hearted  ones,  pass  me  not  by, 
I  starve,  ah,  feed  me  or  I  die !  — 
Will  all  these  turn  and  say  me  nay  ?  " 

Some  smile  among  the  idlers  gay, 
A  few  give  all,  most  turn  away, 
But  still,  with  sorrow-burdened  cry 
Love  stands  and  waits. 

Unfeeling  hearts,  your  hardened  clay 
Would  crush  poor  Love  until  she  lay 
Dead,  but  her  seat  is  far  too  high 
For  touch  profane ;  Love  cannot  die, 
Her  own  are  glad.    But  night  and  day 
Love  stands  and  waits. 


THE  AWAKENING 

WAS  it  the  blue-bird's  magic  note 
That  broke  the  dim  enchanted  spell  ? 
Or  was  it  song  from  robin's  throat 
That  clearly  on  the  woodland  fell  ? 

415 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

None  is  can  say  when  Winter  stood 
And  bade  "Retreat"  to  legions  drear; 
Hearts  only  know  that  in  the  wood 
Arbutus  wakes  and  Spring  is  here. 

What  voice  of  wailing  Autumn  wind 
Hushed  every  bud  to  deeper  rest, 
Till  Spring  should  come,  and  smile  to  find 
Them  sleeping  still  on  April's  breast? 

What  dreams  of  sunshine  warm  and  sweet 
Do  fleeting,  drifting  snow-flakes  hold  ? 
What  thoughts  of  resurrection  beat 
Thro'  the  deep  heart  of  Winter's  cold? 

No  eye  has  seen,  no  lip  can  tell 

What  sign  first  told  of  Spring's  advance, 

When  pussy-willow  'gan  to  swell, 

Or  bud  awoke  from  dreamy  trance. 

But  break  from  Winter's  heart  and  sing, 
For  now  in  forests  far  and  near, 
Beneath  the  dead  year's  covering 
Arbutus  wakes  and  Spring  is  here. 


VIOLETS 

WHAT  angel  eyes  grown  deep  because  their  gaze 
Had  passed  the  place  where  thought  grows  still 

and  dies, 

Bade  in  your  heart  a  purple  fount  to  rise 
In  answer  to  their  look,  that  in  all  days 
Your  robe  of  kingly  color  men  should  prize? 

416 


EMILY    ROWLAND    LEEMING 

What  vial  did  he  bring  from  Paradise 

Of  odors  rare,  to  make  thought  cleave  the  skies 

And  dream  of  heav'n's  breath  shed  o'er  earthly 

ways? 

I  cannot  tell ;  —when  that  soft  fragrance  flings 
Its  spell  around  my  soul,  what  charm'd  thought 

springs 

Within  my  mind ;  but  once  I  dreamed 
I  stood  in  coming  heaven,  and  I  seemed 
In  dewless  fields,  while  quickened  pulses  beat 
To  see  the  violets  nodding  at  my  feet. 


417 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


MARKION  WILCOX 

ABOVE  ALL  HEIGHTS 

Ueber  alien  Gipfeln  ist  Ruh.— Goethe. 
From  Harper's  Magazine,  copyright,  1901,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

WORK  for  work's  sake,  and  for  our  art,  I  say ; 
Not  for  ourselves— no,  not  for  our  best  friends, 
Nor  heart's  content  when  our  brief  day's  work 
ends; 

A  thousand  times  less  for  men's  praise  or  pay. 

To  crown  the  finished  task,  rest  comes  unsought ; 
But  seems  it  finished,  to  the  Power  above 
And  Master  even  of  rest,  until  with  love  — 

For  no  reward,  but  as  God  made — we've  wrought  ? 

"Above  all  heights  is  rest."    At  set  of  sun 

Spirits  perturbed  in  darkening  valleys  moan : 
"  Because  we  strove  for  wealth  and  fame  alone, 

Our  work  unfinished  and  ourselves  undone ! " 


LIKE    THE    GOOD    GOD 
From  Harper'*  Magazine,  copyright,  1895,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

His  own  face  he  had  never  seen  before 
In  all  his  recluse  life,  and  he  had  grown 
Almost  to  manhood  knowing  nothing  more 
Than  the  poor  cell  in  which  they  two  alone, 
He  and  his  father,  dwelt. 

418 


MAREION    WILCOX 

I  can't  tell  why 

His  father  fled  into  the  wilderness, 
But  for  some  wrong  he  loathed  society. 
Taking  his  infant  son  from  such  distress 
As  he  himself  had  felt,  he  fed  his  mind 
With  all  experience  taught  of  good  and  bad ; 
So  the  boy  knew  by  name  each  horrid  kind 
Of  crime,  each  lovely  virtue ;  and  he  had 
Such  images  to  frighten  or  delight 
As  his  thoughts  made  by  day,  his  dreams  by  night. 
With  form  and  feature  fancy  did  deck  out 
A  sweet  angelic  choir,  a  devil's  rout. 
But  One,  of  whom  his  father  oftenest  spoke, 
Kemained  only  a  name :  no  image  woke 
Into  his  fancy  when  he  heard  that  all 
Came  from  that  One — from  that  One's  simple  word : 
The  sun's  uprising  and  the  sparrow's  fall  : 
For,  while  he  heard  such  things,  he  thought  he 

heard 

That  this  Source  of  all  life  suffered  death's  reign ; 
Himself  secure,  permitted  mortal  pain. 
So  the  boy  tried  to  imagine  good  and  evil 
Expressed  in  one  face  —  Gabriel  and  the  devil  — 
But  could  not  do  it. 

Now,  the  loveliest  thing 
That  boy  was !  — Manly  past  imagining, 
Hardy  with  abstinence,  with  high  thoughts  fine. 
Nature  in  him  had  made  her  work  divine. 
But  what  he  was  he  knew  not  till  one  day 
When  rain  had  fallen  in  that  desert  place : 

419 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

A  pool  of  water  mirrored  his  own  face, 
And,  seeing  it,  he  humbly  knelt  to  pray. 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH  FROM  THE  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE 

From  Harper's  Magazine,  copyright,  1894,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

A  POISONOUS  forest  of  houses  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 
And  in  their  shade 
All  crime  is  made. 
Now  God  love  you  and  me ! 
I  think  He  made  even  that  shade  in  the  cities  by 

the  sea — 

In  the  poisonous  forest  of  houses  like  a  forest  of 
upas-trees. 

Look !  from  the  south  — 
From  the  harbor's  mouth — 
Crisp  curling  comes  the  breeze ! 
From  the  freed  stream's  mouth,  from  the  glad,  glad 
south,  from  the  cool  breast  of  God's  seas. 


IN  THE  CITY  AFTER   LEAVING  THE  MOUNTAINS 

From  Harper's  Weekly,  copyright,  1894,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

DULL  senses,  stirred 

By  the  great  city's  sounds,  so  long  unheard ; 
Toil-swollen  hands  and  sluggish,  sun-baked  brain. 
To  feel  this  civic  pulse— to  think  again  — 
I  strive  in  vain : 

420 


MARRION    WILCOX 

For  old,  old  mountains  rise 
Behind  these  crowds  of  people  of  to-day. 
Gray  rock,  green  forest,  and  their  darling  stream 
Are  in  my  eyes  still,  since  my  lingering  gaze 
Held  them,  them  only,  through  long,  lonely  days. 
So,  to  my  eyes, 

Our  toiling  human  thousands  do  but  play 
With  phantom  needs,  with  woes  born  of  a  dream : 
Chasing  desires  that  flit,  with  mocking  cries, 
Athwart  the  mountainous  old  verities. 


GOOD    NIGHT 

GOOD  Night  hath  filled  her  cup  with  white 

•Star-sparkling  wine — 
O'erbrimmed  our  valley  with  moonlight— 

Your  cup  and  mine. 
It  is  the  dreamful  wine  of  sleep : 
Drink  of  it,  my  Delight,  drink  deep. 
Good-night! 


421 


POETS  AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 
CHARLOTTE  BECKER 

A  CHILD  OF  THE   WOODS 

HE  knew  the  first  sweet  wood-note  of  the  thrush, 
The  first  pale  wind-flower  hidden  in  the  grass ; 
The  little  shrines  where  fire-flies  saying  mass 
Swing  low  their  censers  through  the  marsh-land's 

bush; 

The  quickened  sound  before  the  poignant  hush 
Which  preludes  charges  at  old  earth's  cuirass  — 
That  magic  moment  when  the  seasons  pass 
And  all  live  things  to  newer  promise  rush. 
He  loved  the  bob-o-link's  familiar  call, 
The  friendly  clover  nodding  to  the  bees ; 
The  tiger-lilies  flaunting,  gay  and  tall, 
Their  motley  coats  of  spotted  harmonies ; 
And  when  the  night  lay  on  the  forests  grim, 
He  heard  the  tree-tops  croon  a  song  for  him. 


SYMPATHY 

We  laughed  together,  love  and  I, 
When  all  the  world  was  bright ; 

We  mocked  at  pain,  and  thought  we  spanned 
The  measure  of  delight. 

We  wept  together,  love  and  I, 

When  all  the  world  was  gray ; 
And  yet,  we  had  not  known  how  fair 

The  world  was  — till  that  day ! 

422 


CHAKLOTTE    BECKER 

A   STREET   SONG 

HE  knew  no  call  of  hearth  or  home  — 

A  strolling  piper,  old  and  gray, 
Who  cheered  his  fellow  mountebanks 

With  tune  and  jest  the  livelong  day ; 
And  often  one  sad  little  song 

With  this  refrain  they  heard  him  play— 
"AhColinette, 
Do  not  forget!" 

One  noon,  within  a  dusty  street, 

They  spread  their  cloth  of  scarlet  down, 
Where  harlequins  should  leap  and  dance 

Betwixt  the  antics  of  the  clown ; 
And  all  the  while  the  piper  played 
As  if  a  spell  rose  from  the  town  — 
"AhColinette, 
Do  not  forget!" 

The  village  folk  drew  close  about, 

And  on  the  outskirt  of  the  throng 
A  worn  old  woman  bent  her  head 

And  dreamt  of  words  unuttered  long ; 
Then,  scarce  more  loud  than  passing  wind, 
She  breathed  an  answer  to  the  song — 
"AhColinette 
Could  not  forget !" 


423 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

A   GARDEN  IN  GREECE 

BENEATH  these  ilex  boughs  the  air  is  still 

As  some  deserted  shrine  whence  life  has  fled, 
Some  tomb  that  holds  the  ashes  of  the  dead 
Deep  hid  from  living  eyes ;  dank  grasses  fill 
The  silenced  fountain's  bowl,  where  once  at  will 
The  water   sprites   held  sway — now  in  their 

stead, 

An  ancient  satyr  nods  his  drowsy  head. 
Unhindered,  Spring  by  Spring,  prim  daffodil 
And  pale  narcissus  people  as  their  own 
The  dusky  paths,  which  echo  nevermore 
To  pipes  of  Pan,  nor  strains  of  Phoebus'  lore, 
Nor  naiad's  laugh ;  for  years  have  turned  to  stone 
The  gods  of  eld  — and  solitude  shall  keep 
A  world-long  vigil  o'er  their  place  of  sleep. 


IMAGINATION 

I  AM  the  flame  that  springs  from  ev'ry  fire 
Of  youth,  or  skill,  or  genius,  or  of  strength ; 

I  am  the  wind  that  smote  Apollo's  lyre, 

And  made  sweet  music  through  Eola's  length. 

I  am  the  sands  of  ancient  Egypt,  where 

Strange  caravans  pass  through  the  warm,  still 
gloom ; 

I  am  the  phantom  isles,  the  mirage  fair 
That  lured  forgotten  races  to  their  doom. 

424 


CHAELOTTE    BECKER 

I  am  the  waves  that  beat  upon  the  shore 
Of  Camelot  and  harked  to  Merlin's  call. 

I  am  the  cloak  of  darkness  Siegfried  bore ; 
The  talisman  that  loosed  Brunhilde's  thrall. 

I  am  the  fragrance  of  the  forest  trail, 

The  whispered  voices  of  the  trees  above. 

I  am  the  heart  of  romance ;  and  the  veil 

That  hides  with  tender  touch  the  faults  of  love. 

I  steal  through  cities  and  I  haunt  the  moor, 

I  draw  my  scarlet  thread  through  time,  unfurled ; 

Though  rich  in  gold,  who  knows  me  not  is  poor  — 
Who  knows  me  holds  in  fief  the  whole  wide  world ! 

67  permission  of  The  New  England  Magazine. 


THE  RECKONING 

LOVE  taught  me  all  I  knew  of  bliss, 
Love  taught  me  all  I  knew  of  pain  — 
Lured  me  with  laughter  and  disdain, 

Then  made  me  captive  with  his  kiss. 

He  vowed  no  pleasure  I  should  miss, 

Then  swift  he  wounded  me  again  — 
Love  taught  me  all  I  knew  of  bliss ; 
Love  taught  me  all  I  knew  of  pain. 

So  deep  we  sounded  grief's  abyss, 
My  heart  to  beg  release  was  fain ; 
Ah,  would  my  pleading  had  been  vain, 
For  now  I  but  remember  this : 
Love  taught  me  all  I  know  of  bliss ! 

425 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

ARDEN 

THERE  is  a  wood  wherein  the  thrushes  fling 

Their  very  hearts  away  in  melody ; 

Where  dryads  have  a  home  in  every  tree, 

And  wood-gods  haunt  the  shadow,  murmuring 

Fantastic  lures ;  where  tawny  lilies  swing 

Their  fragrant  bells,  and  bees  hum  drowsily ; 

And  breezes  woo  the  pale  anemone 

With  tenderness  that  breathes  the  soul  of  Spring. 

Here  Summer  may  not  pass,  nor  Autumn  rest 
His  blighting  hand,  nor  harsh  winds  wend  their 

way ; 

Beneath  these  boughs  the  wonder  of  the  May 
Shall  never  fade,  nor  Love  deny  his  quest 
Of  happiness,  nor  beauty  lose  its  truth ; 
For  Arden's  forest  is  immortal  youth ! 


THE  COST 

From  Harper's  Magazine,  copyright,  1903,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

TO-DAY  is  only  won  from  yesterday ; 

The  flower  must  lose  its  sweet  to  dower  the  bee ; 
The  breeze  is  gathered  in  the  great  wind's  way ; 

The  river  bears  its  largess  to  the  sea. 

And  we  must  pay  for  laughter  with  our  tears ; 

Mint  coin  of  sorrow  for  each  cherished  breath 
Of  happiness ;  buy  knowledge  with  the  years ; 

And  give  our  lives  to  know  the  peace  of  death ! 

426 


CHARLOTTE    BECKER 

CAMARADERIE 

To  share  what  eyes  have  seen  and  ears  have  heard, 
To  know  each  other's  language ;  and  to  feel 

The  larger  meaning  of  the  spoken  word, 
The  subtler  nearness  silences  reveal. 


PIERROT 

THE  Muse,  his  foster-mother,  bids  him  wear 
A  merry  face— although  the  skies  are  gray, 
And  night  should  bring  him  but  a  nest  of  hay 
Within  the  new-mown  fields.    "  For  earth  is  fair," 
Laughs  she,  "and  hearts  lie  open  wide  as  air 
To  him  who  cheers  them."  So,  from  day  to  day, 
In  gay  grotesques  he  sings  upon  his  way ! 
Alike  at  peasant  hearth  or  palace  stair. 
All  through  the  sun-stained  countries  of  the  South 
The  people  know  and  love  this  white-frocked  mime 
Whose  eyes  speak  sadness,  but  whose  laughing 

mouth 

Brings  only  maddest  whimsy  or  glad  rhyme 
As  plea  for  shelter — yet,  from  high  or  low, 
None  meets  a  dearer  welcome  than  Pierrot! 


ENVOY 

SAY  not,  because  he  did  no  wondrous  deed, 

Amassed  no  worldly  gain, 
Wrote  no  great  book,  revealed  no  hidden  truth  — 

Perchance  he  lived  in  vain . 

427 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

For  there  was  grief  within  a  thousand  hearts 

The  hour  he  ceased  to  live ; 
He  held  the  love  of  women,  and  of  men  — 

Life  has  no  more  to  give ! 


428 


RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 


RICHARD  WATSON   GILDER 

THE  CITY  OF   LIGHT 

The  Pan-American  Exposition. 

WHAT  shall  we  name  it 

As  is  our  bounden  duty,— 

This  new,  swift-builded  fairy  city  of  Beauty, — 

What  name  that  shall  not  shame  it, 

Shall  make  it  live  beyond  its  too  short  living 

With  praises  and  thanksgiving. 

Its  name  —  how  shall  we  doubt  it, — 

We  who  have  seen,  when  the  blue  darkness  falls, 

Leap  into  lines  of  light  its  domes,  and  spires,  and 

walls, 

Pylons,  and  colonnades,  and  towers, 
All  garlanded  with  starry  flowers ! 
Its  name— what  heart  that  did  not  shout  it 
When,  from  afar,  flamed  sudden  against  the  night 
The  City  of  Light ! 

AMHERST  HOUSE,  BUFFALO,  May,  1901. 


429 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

THE  COMFORT  OF   THE   TREES 

McKinley,  September,  1901. 

GENTLE  and  generous,  brave-hearted,  kind, 
And  full  of  love  and  trust  was  he,  our  chief; 
He  never  harmed  a  soul !  Oh,  dull  and  blind 
And  cruel,  the  hand  that  smote,  beyond  belief ! 

Strike  him  ?  It  could  not  be !  soon  should  we  find 
'T  was  but  a  torturing  dream  —  our  sudden  grief ! 
Then  sobs  and  wailings  dowm  the  northern  wind 
Like  the  wild  voice  of  shipwreck  from  a  reef  ! 

By  false  hope  lulled  (his  courage  gave  us  hope !) 
By  day,  by  night  we  watched, — until  unfurled 
At  last  the  word  of  fate !  — Our  memories 

Cherish  one  tender  thought  in  their  sad  scope : 
He,  looking  from  the  window  on  this  world, 
Found  comfort  in  the  moving  green  of  trees. 


430 


ALINE    GLENNY 


ALINE  GLENNY 

A  SONG 

COME  to  us,  Joan,  the  wild  woods  cry, 
I  long  for  you,  sigh  the  murmuring  seas ; 

The  sweet  summer  days  like  birds  fly  by, 
The  wind  moans  softly  among  the  trees : 

Come  to  us,  Joan,  we  yearn  for  you ; 

Our  love  is  tender,  trusting  and  true. 

The  fountain  murmurs  with  tear-drops  clear, 
For  you  the  heart  of  the  red  rose  bleeds  — 

Come  to  us  soon  for  we  want  you  near, 

Dearest,  we  need  you,  the  white  dove  pleads ; 

Come  to  us,  Joan,  we  yearn  for  you, 

Our  love  is  tender,  trusting  and  true. 


431 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


CAROLINE  MISCHKA  ROBERTS 

THE   ROSE   OF  AVONTOWN 

ONCE  bloomed  a  rose  in  Avontown 

A  rose  as  red  as  the  morning ; 

Its  thorns  were  sharp  but  its  heart  was  gold 
And  diamond  dew-drops  its  cup  did  hold, 

A  rose  for  a  bride's  adorning. 

A  bride  there  was  in  Avontown, 

The  bride  of  a  bright  June  morning, 
The  lovely  rose  she  chanced  to  see, 
And  said :    " '  Tis  what  my  life  will  be, 
I'll  pluck  it  for  my  adorning." 

"For,"  spake  the  bride  of  Avontown, 

"The  thorns  are  for  grief  and  mourning, 
With  a  petal  for  youth  and  one  for  health, 
With  another  for  fame  and  two  for  wealth, 
And  the  heart  for  love,  life's  adorning." 

Now  as  she  was  wed  in  Avontown, 

In  the  blush  of  the  bright  June  morning, 
The  rose's  red  petals  all  fell  away 
And  nought  but  the  thorny  stem  did  stay 
With  the  heart  of  gold  adorning. 

The  bride  waxed  old  in  Avontown, 
The  bride  of  the  bright  June  morning, 

432 


CAROLINE    MISCHKA    ROBERTS 

Her  rosy  dreams  long  flown  away, 
But  happy  was  she,  though  bent  and  gray, 
For  love  stayed,  her  life  adorning. 

By  permission  of  Arthur  P.  Schmidt.    Copyright,  1894. 


LULLABY 

THE  Moon  hangs  low  in  the  eastern  sky, 

The  Sun  hangs  low  in  the  west, 
The  Evening  Star  in  the  heavens  is  high, 

A  gem  on  the  Twilight's  breast; 
And  each  one  says  that  the  time  is  nigh 

For  tired  wee  folk  to  rest, 
So  cuddle  ye  close  and  cosily  lie 

Tucked  in  your  warm  white  nest. 


433 


POETS   AND   POETRY    OF   BUFFALO 


THEKLA  ADAM 

MARCH 

THIS  is  the  month  when  wild-flowers  dream 

All  winter  they  have  slept, 
Still  as  the  dead,  in  frozen  ground. 

No  lightest  dream  has  crept 
Through  any  drowsy  flower-heart. 

Now  March  has  come, 
Faint  visions  warm  the  chilly  earth  — 

A  sleep  less  numb 
Is  theirs.    What  do  they  dream  of  there  ? 

Of  slopes  that  sun 
Themselves  in  April  light?    Of  streams 

That  gurgling  run 
Half-mad  with  joy  ?    Of  the  sweet  breath 

Of  ev'ry  lovely  thing 
That  breaks  the  mold  ?    Of  these,  and  all 

The  sweet,  sweet  joys  of  Spring. 


434 


JANE    F.    BOWLING 


JANE  F.  BOWLING 

(MRS.    ROBERT  B.    FOOTE.) 

ROSEMARY 

IF  for  each  tear  I've  shed,  a  joy  might  spring 

Into  thy  life,  dear  heart ! 
How  gladly  would  I  shed  them  all  again 

And  so  depart 

Upon  my  way,  glad  that  my  life  a  price 
Could  be 
For  thy  tranquility. 

If  for  each  hour  of  joy  I've  spent  with  thee 

In  days  gone  by, 
Thou  wilt  retain  a  tender  memory, 

Ma/yhap  a  sigh, 
'  T  will  help  me  face  the  future  steadfastly, 

Though  life  will  be 
A  path  long,  dark  and  shadowy ; 

A  saltless  sea, 
With  thee  alive,  though  dead  to  me. 


435 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


S.  CECILIA  COTTER  KING 

(Mrs.  William  A.  King.) 
FEAST  OF  SAINT  CECILIA 

WHAT  thrilling  vibrations, 

What  soulful  cantations, 

Enrapture  the  heart  on  this  drear  autumn  day ! 

Making  God's  sunshine  rush  back  to  the  meadows, 

Making  the  songsters  recall  their  sweet  lay. 

Seraphic  voices  sing,  glorious  their  Antiphon ! 

Bright  ranks  of  choristers  swell  the  grand  tone, 

Cherubs  pronounce  the  song, — 

Fling  it  the  strings  along 

Of  harpsichords  glad. 

God  touched  the  love  note ; 

All  nature  responded, 

Cecilia's  soul  echoed  the  joyful  refrain, 

And  harmonies  captive  impetuous  break  forth, 

When  trumpeting  angels  her  festal  proclaim. 

Then  wondrous  the  power  is, 

And  magic  the  spell  'tis 

A  creature  creates. 

0  soul,  in  which  hides 

And  trembles  and  bides 

The  thoughts  of  our  God,  set  to  music  sublime ! 

Touch  softly  our  heartstrings.    In  tune  and  in  time 

436 


S.   CECILIA    COTTER    KING 

Our  years  be  as  hymnals,  our  days  their  sweet 

stanzas, 

Until,  Saint  Cecilia, 
Our  lives  blend  with  thine 
In  diapason  divine. 


437 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


PHILIP  BECKER  GOETZ 

KEATS 

A  Fragment. 

0  POET  whom  Apollo  taught  to  sing 

And  gave  the  lyre  antique  whose  muted  string 

Sang  never  clearlier  than  at  thy  sweep 

Of  hand  the  bright,  deep,  mighty  themes  asleep 

In  memory  and  long  forgot,  arise 

And  visit  with  thy  rare,  immediate  eyes, 

Thy  diadem  of  sky,  thy  robing  air, 

Thy  throne  of  earth,  and  hear  thy  granted  prayer, 

The  sea,  awaited  minstrel  of  thy  court, 

Before  thee  eloquently  echoing 

Thy  long  desire ! 

Despite  thy  mortal  spring 
Thy  promised  gifts  to  ripeness  learned  to  grow 
Till   now   hope's   autumn    rounds   th' empurpled 

glow 

Of  all  thy  wanton-clustered  fancies  fair. 
Chill  reason's  frugal  fingers,  guessing  w^here 
Most  luscious  hung  these  arbiters  of  cheer, 
Plucked  prudently  thy  store  and,  marking  year, 
Finds  richer  to  the  taste  of  practised  lip 
Thy  joy  and  tragedy. 

Then  hither  trip, 

Ye  lissom  Mainads  of  the  secret  dell, 
Boon  Bakchanals,  and  ye  of  steep  and  fell, 

438 


PHILIP    BECKEK    GOETZ 

0  pious  guardians,  the  sequent  host 

Of  piping  Pan,  and  ye  who  bleach  the  coast 

Where  dulcet  strains  of  music  amorous 

Met  your  forever-listening  ears  till  thus 

In  wreck  of  fallen  flesh,  quite  dissolute, 

Yet  listening  still,  ye  dropped  a  prey  to  brute ! 

And  thou,  queen  vigilant,  drawn  from  the  height 

Of  heaven,  snowy  with  erected  light 

Of  contemplation,  Dian,  most  romantic 

Become  above  thy  Latmian  whom  frantic 

Thy  virgin  arms  and  eyes  and  kisses  drave ; 

And  ye,  once  more  devising  how  to  save 

Olympos,  Titans  bent  beneath  the  hoary 

And  rock-ribbed  mountains,  hear  rehearsed  your 

glory, 

Strife  and  damnation,  and  declare  if  e'er 
Your  protest  toned  pr of o under  voice  than  there 
In  his  recorded  guess  deemed  worthless  care ! 


OBSCURITIES 

TO-DAY  you  see  a  rose 
And  only  color  glows 

And  speaks ; 

To-morrow  still  it  reigns 
But  other  gifts  contains 

And  seeks. 

As  for  the  rose  your  eye, 
So  for  the  poem  try 
All  ways ; 

439 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

If  never  twice  the  same, 
To  rose  or  eye  no  blame 
But  praise. 


PHILLIPS  BROOKS 

NOT  like  a  star  he  dwelt  apart  austere, 

Shining  diminished  through  the  airy  deep ; 

In  midmost  of  the  line  his  helm  and  spear 
Made  warriors  of  all  and  banished  fear. 


440 


JAMES    S.    METCALFE 


JAMES  S.  METCALFE 

THE    LAST    LOVER 

TIRED  of  earthly  loving, 

Weary  of  earthly  sin, 
Weighed  down  with  earthly  sorrow, 

Thy  peace  I  fain  would  win, 
Dear  Death ! 

In  thy  pale  arms  enfold  me ! 

Thy  damp  kiss  on  my  brow 
Shall  bring  me  peace  at  last,  love ; 

I  fain  would  have  it  now, 
Sweet  Death ! 

And  thy  love  shall  last  forever, 
And  thy  constancy  alway, 

So  tarry  not,  my  lover, 

But  come,  yes,  come  to-day, 
My  Death ! 


441 


POETS   AND   POETKY   OF   BUFFALO 


CAKLETON  SPRAGUE 

J.   G.  M. 

A  SCORE  of  years  and  ten  have  past, — 
How  stealthily  they  steal  away  our  days, 
These  silent  robbers  of  our  opportunities, — 

Since  first  this  friend 

Came  to  our  City's  gates ; 
Came  all  unheralded ;  and  unequipped  was  he 

With  that  on  which 

The  world  sets  greatest  store,— 
Wealth,  friends  powerful,  position  ready-made, — 

These  and  their  like  he  lacked, 

But  in  their  stead 
Some  precious  gifts  were  his,  gifts  not  the  rarest 

each, 
But  in  the  happy  combination  found  in  him 

How  rare ! 

And  first,  a  mind  well  trained, 
Stored  through  long,  studious  hours 
With  wealth  of  knowledge  gained 
In   journeys   wide   through   book-strewn   paths, 

which, 
Tracing  out  an  hundred  devious  ways, 

Converge  at  last 
Before  that  lofty  temple,  whose  white  portal 

Bears  the  inscription  "Culture," 

442 


CARLETON    SPRAGUE 

But  a  single  word,  than  which 

Few  higher  titles  name 

The  best  of  any  age 

Since  man  began  to  find  his  best  expression. 
And  his  the  sweetness  of  the  gentle  great,— 

Best  gift  of  God,— 
And  his  wide  tolerance,  broad  sympathies 

And  love  of  fellow  men. 
They,  feeling  this,  and  taking  his  warm  hand, 

The  kindliness  flowed  into  them 

And  all  were  better  men 
Because  he  came  and  lived  within  their  midst. 

This  human  influence 

Toward  what  is  good  in  us, 
This  quickened  flow  of  finer  impulses 

Which  dormant  lie 
Beneath  the  weight  of  every  day, — 
To  stir  these  by  mere  presence, 
By  character's  involuntary  worth, 
Is  to  attain  to  heights  few  mount, 

Is  to  behold  the  Promised  Land. 

January,  1904 


443 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


BY  AN  UNNAMED  WRITER 

THOUGHTS  ON  A   LONE  OAK 

GREAT,  grand  and  gnarled  Oak,  continually 

Thy  weary  arms  seem  reaching  into  space ; 

Of  time  and  tempest  still  thou  bearest  trace ; 
Beside  thee  stands  no  sympathizing  tree 

To  whisper  comfort  in  thy  lonely  place : 
The  parting  sun  sinks  silent  o'er  the  sea, 
His  light  a  passing  glory  rests  on  thee ; 

I  see  Endurance  crowned  and  hide  my  face ! 

Like  thee,  old  Oak,  I,  too,  have  stood  apart, 
Beaten  by  winds,  forsaken  and  forlorn, 

I  stretched  my  arms  to  unresponsive  air ; 
I  said  in  bitterness  be  strong  my  heart ! 

Now,  life's  delusions  from  my  soul  are  torn ; 
I,  too,  can  storm  and  isolation  bear. 

1893. 


444 


ROBERT    CAMERON    ROGERS 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

BLIND   POLYPHEMUS 

ALL  day  upon  a  grassy  slope  I  stretch 

My  vast  uncertain  limbs.    About  me  stray 

The  sheep  I  used  to  watch,  whom  still  I  turn 

My  darkened  eye  upon,  and  I  can  hear 

The  patter  of  their  feet,  stray  near,  stray  far. 

I  hear  as  others  see,  and  still  my  voice 

Has  worship  with  the  sheep,  they  come  at  call. 

Sometimes  I  lie  so  still  the  new-weaned  lambs 

Huddle  against  me  when  the  wind  blows  cold, 

Sometimes  they  leap  upon  me  in  their  play. 

They  fear  me  not,  my  sheep  have  never  feared. 

My  hand  was  only  harsh  against  my  kind, 

And  those  fell  creatures  whom  the  gods  gave  souls 

To  vex  the  Mother  with  their  restless  lives. 

Aye,  such  as  he,  the  wily  Ithacan. 

For  one  long  year  I  saw  him,  day  by  day, 

Against  the  scar-seamed  curtain  of  mine  eye, — 

His  quick  frank  smile,  his  eyes  that  read  one's  mind 

Yet  never  gave  me  glimmer  of  his  own, — 

His  lean  strong  arms  and  broad,  brown,  knotted 

back, 

And  his  gaunt  followers  all  like  to  him 
As  little  foxes  to  their  keen-eyed  sire. 
And  each  day,  for  a  year,  I  felt  my  way, 
Down  to  the  beach,  and  washed  the  heal  ing  wound, 

445 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  laid  iny  head  upon  the  cool  wet  sand, 
And  cried  to  Father  Sea  to  pay  my  score, 
Tenfold  redoubled,  on  the  crafty  one ; 
To  drive  him  rudderless  on  outer  seas , 
To  drift  him  wide  of  port,  to  suck  his  men 
Deep  into  eddying  water-pits — to  death ; 
And  then  when,  day  by  day,  his  blurring  eyes 
Had  strained,  to  heart-break,  for  a  sight  of  port, 
To  show  him  land,  and  then — to  strike  him  blind. 

But  peace  has  come  at  last.    My  brothers  deem 
Because  I  rage  no  more,  that  I  am  mad ; 
Because  my  sight  is  turned  upon  myself 
And  I  see  dimly  where  the  brute  has  lain 
That  made  my  heart  his  lair,  and  find  it  foul. 
I  cannot  drive  my  past  into  the  past, 
My  memory  holds,  but  I  shall  curse  no  more. 

And  often  I  forget,—  when  at  my  side 

The  old  ram  crouches,  legs  beneath  him  bent, 

And  round  his  wrinkled  horns  I  grip  my  hands 

And  pillow  soft  my  face  upon  his  flank. 

Sleep  comes —the  blind  may  sleep  as  sweet  and  deep 

As  those  whose  eyes  are  weary  of  the  day, — 

And  at  my  side  the  ram  lies  quietly  — 

He  guards  me  now,  for  once  I  guarded  him. 

And  Zeus  grants  one  delight;  — when  day  is  gone, 
When  night  blinds  all,  my  sight  comes  back  to  me ; 
And  I  can  see,  as  last  I  saw,  the  day  — 
The  great  blue  breathing  deep— the  black  ribbed  slag 
That  Titans  flung  from  ^Etna's  forge  to  cool 

446 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

Amid  the  breakers  and  away,  beyond, 

The  coast  of  Italy. — Again  I  see 

The  hazy  hills  where  graze  my  brother's  sheep, 

The  olive  trees  that  bow  themselves  and  peer 

Down  grassy  gullies,  and  the  timid  joy 

Of  almond  trees  in  bloom. 

When  morning  comes 

The  ewes  unbidden  crowd  about  my  knees, 
And  with  blind  hands  grown  gentler  than  of  old 
I  milk  them  one  by  one ; —  then  pasturewards 
I  follow  them  wrho  one  time  followed  me. 


A  BALLAD   OF  DEAD  CAMP   FIRES 


FOOD  for  the  horses— lots  of  it— upon  the  bluff, 
Sure  to  be  a  spring  in  a  pocket  of  the  hill, 
There  in  the  deadfall  for  a  fire  wood  enough, 
Here's  the  place  for  bedding  down  — 
Whoa !  Stand  still ! 

Throw  off  the  saddles,  untwist  the  hackamores, 
Loads  off  the  burro  and  the  pack  cayuse : 
One  shall  wear  a  bell  to  keep  the  stock  in  ear-shot, 
Twist  the  hobbles  round  their  legs  and 
Turn  them  loose. 

Here  on  the  spot  wrhere  a  fire  crackled  last  year, 
Scrape  the  charry  faggots  off,  kindle  one  anew ; 

447 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Men  and  seasons  out  of  mind  each   band   that 

passed  here, 

Lured  by  feed  and  water,  stopped  and 
Made  camp  too. 

Sage-brush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 

Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn-winds  blow ; 
Oh  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 

n. 

Here  used  to  camp  with  squaws  and  dogs  and 

ponies, 

Long  before  the  coining  of  the  pale-face  breed, 
Blackfeet  hunters,  Bannocks  and  Shoshones, 
Laying  in  their  meat  against  a 
Winter's  need. 

Warm  in  their  blankets,  weaving  savage  fancies 
Out  of  the  smoke  that  veered  above  the  blaze, 
Fortunate  hunts,  the  foray  and  its  chances, 
New  squaws  and  ponies  and  the 
Head  Chief's  praise. 

War  parties  lurk  on  the  trails  to   the   hunting 

grounds, 

Treachery  enters  where  the  tepees  spread, 
New  scalps  dry  in  the  Absaroka  villages, 
The  lodge-poles  are  broken  and  the 
Fire  is  dead. 

448 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

Sage-brush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 

Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn-winds  blow ; 
Oh  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 

HI. 

Here  later  on  came  the  man  whose  race  is  sped 

and  gone, 

Born  white,  burnt  red  under  wind  and  sun ; . 
Life  in  the  one  hand,  rifle  in  the  other  one, 
Traps  on  every  creek  in  which  the 
Beaver  run. 

Feet  to  the  fire,  watching  where  the  eddies  spin, 
Pine  smoke  eddies,  while  the  damp  logs  sing, 
Conjuring  visions  of  mighty  packs  of  beaver  skin, 
Good  for  gold  in  plenty  at  the  post 
In  the  spring. 

Trail  to  the  traps  in  the  creek  at  the  break  of  day, 

No  trail  back  and  the  sunset  is  red ; 

Two  eagles  wheel  above  the  brush  at  the  beaver 

dam, 

A  timber-wolf  is  howling,  and  the 
Fire  is  dead. 

Sage-brush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 
Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn- winds  blow ; 

449 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

Oh  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 


IV. 

Gone  bow  and  quiver,  lance  and  feather  bonnet, 
Smooth  bore  and  beaver-trap,  buckskin  jacket,  all  — 
Here  is  the  stage— but  where  the  actors  on  it? 
Dead  to  our  plaudits,  and  the 
Vain  recall. 

Still  one  shall  hear  the  coyote  in  the  moonlight, 
Still  hear  the  bull-elk  whistle  up  the  sun, 
Still  the  old  orchestra  carrying  the  tune  right,— 
Oh  wasted  music ;  for  the 
Play  is  done. 

We,  too,  shall  act  our  parts  on  other  stages, 
Spinning  out  fancies  while  the  Fates  spin  thread. 
Heap  up  the  fire  then,  keep  the  present  cheery, 
We  must  hit  the  trail,  too,  when  the 
Fire  is  dead. 

Sage-brush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 

Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn-winds  blow ; 
Oh  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 

450 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

THE   TETONS  AT  DUSK 

THE  sun  has  dropped  behind  the  range, 

The  twilight  saddens  hill  and  tree, 
A  moment  now  the  world  is  strange, 

A  shifting  fairy  world  to  me. 
The  same  terrain  spreads  mile  on  mile 

From  mountain  base  to  mountain  base — 
But  Nature  wears  her  vision-look 

Upon  a  changing  face. 

From  early  years,  of  sterner  ways, 

On  shadowy  steeds — from  Deadman's  Keep- 
The  spectres  of  heroic  days 

Across  a  haunted  twilight  sweep. 
Soldier  and  scout,  whose  dust,  perchance, 

Still  drifts  about  the  sage-brush  plain, 
Keen  hunter,  eager  emigrant, 

Start  forth  to  life  again. 

A  moment  —  and  the  silent  band, 

Down  trails  that  thread  the  wastes  of  Dusk, 
Ride  back  once  more  into  the  land 

Beyond  the  old  day's  yellow  husk ; 
And  like  grim  warders  of  the  Past 

The  Tetons  loom,  with  shoulders  white  — 
Their  mighty  backs  forever  set 

Against  the  gates  of  night. 


451 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

A  SLEEPING  PRIESTESS  OF  APHRODITE 

SHE  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair — 
About  her  feet  the  lithe  green  lizards  play 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air. 

The  winds  have  loosed  the  fillet  from  her  hair ; 
Sea-winds,  salt-lipped,  that  laugh  and  seem  to 

say: 
"She  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair, 

"  Then  let  us  twine  soft  fingers,  here  and  there, 

Amid  the  gleaming  threads  that  drift  and  stray 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air, 

"And  let  us  weave  of  them  a  subtle  snare 
To  cast  about  and  bind  her,  as  to-day 
She  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair/' 

Alas,  the  madcap  winds,  how  much  they  dare ! 

They  wove  the  web,  and  in  their  wanton  way, 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air, 

They  bound  her  sleeping,  in  her  own  bright  hair— 
And  as  she  slept  came  Love  —  and  passed  away— 
She  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair, 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air. 


TO   AN  OLD   FRIEND 

A  KINDRED  taste  in  books— the  better  kind, 
A  love  for  humor— of  an  honest  vein  — 
A  turn  for  talk,  for  verses,  and  a  strain 

452 


EOBEKT  CAMERON  EOGERS 

Of  Scottish  blood— last,  but  not  least  to  mind, 
A  joy  in  vain  debate;  all  these  combined 

Have  made  us  young  together  —  spite  the  score 
Of  years  you  rank  me,  and  the  little  more 
Of  gray  above  a  brow  no  deeper  lined. 

But  to  keep  young  together  — how  solve  this? 

Who  reads  the  riddle  never  need  grow  old : 
To  leave  the  heart  unlocked,  that  naught  in  vain 
So  it  be  worthy — yes — though  it  be  pain  — 
Shall  seek  the  door :  old  friend  I  cannot  miss 

The  simple  answer,  by  your  own  life  told ! 


THE  ROSARY 

THE  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart, 

Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me ; 
I  count  them  over,  every  one  apart, 
My  Rosary. 

Each  hour  a  pearl,  each  pearl  a  prayer, 

To  still  a  heart  in  absence  wrung ; 
I  tell  each  bead  unto  the  end  and  there 
A  Cross  is  hung. 

Oh  memories  that  bless  and  burn ! 

Oh  barren  gain  — and  bitter  loss ! 
I  kiss  each  bead  and  strive  at  last  to  learn, 
To  kiss  the  Cross, 
Sweetheart, 

To  kiss  the  Cross. 

453 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

SERENADE  IN  SEVILLE 

ALL  murmur,  all  motion  is  hushed  on  the  Prado, 

Concita, 

No  echoing  tread  in  the  dark  street  is  heard, 
I  stand  here  alone  at  my  heart's  El  Dorado, 

Carita, 
Waiting  for  one  little  word. 

Aslant  the  Giralda  the  moon  pours  its  riches, 

Concita, 
And  through  the  dark  church  draws  a  pathway 

of  light; 

The  saints  are  asleep  in  their  shrines  and  their 
niches, 

Carita, 
We  only  are  wakeful  to-night. 

All  Seville  is  sleeping  about  me,  above  me, 

Concita, 
Alone  in  the  dark  I  am  waiting  for  hope  or 

despair, 
So  drop  me  a  token  to  show  that  you  love  me, 

Carita, 
Or  drop  the  stiletto  that  gleams  in  your  hair. 


454 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

POEM  DELIVERED  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE 
PAN-AMERICAN  EXPOSITION,  MAY,  1901. 

I. 

GREAT  Sister  of  a  peerless  sisterhood, 

Dear  Sovereign  of  a  sovereign  people's  realm, 

Thou  whose  strong  hand  first  gripped  the  waiting 

helm 

Of  the  bright  ship  whose  chart  reads  — ' '  Liberty ' '  — 
And  turned  her  prow  into  the  Western  sea, 
We,  in  thy  name,  and  as  thy  people  should, 
With  arms  extended,  and  the  door  wide  thrown, 
Welcome  thy  sisters  of  the  mighty  name, 
To  all  that  thou  hast  willed  should  be  our  own. 
To  thee— to  them— thy  sisters,  not  in  blood, 
But  of  one  heart,  of  purposes  the  same, 
Throughout  whose  veins  exults  the  untamed  flood 
That  drives  the  pulse  of  all  who  would  be  free, 
This  labour  of  our  hands  and  brains  and  hearts, 
Man's  palm  in  Nature's  struck  and  hers  in  Art's, 
At  the  chief  Commonwealth's  fair  farthest  gate 
We  dedicate. 

ii. 

Enchanted  city  where  the  dreaming  soul 

Conjures  the  minarets  of  far  Cathay  — 

And  half  expects  along  some  waterway 

To  hear  all  Venice  in  a  barcarole ; 

Mistress  of  moods,  across  whose  changing  face 

Half  of  old  Spain  and  half  of  Greece  we  trace ; 

455 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

Hither  the  nations  of  the  West  have  brought 
Fruit  of  their  labour,  flower  of  their  thought ; 
Best  of  their  best  beside  our  best  finds  place : 
The  Saxon  vigor  vies  with  Latin  grace ; 
And  tithes  are  paid  in  product  and  in  art. 
But  in  all  this  the  past  as  well  has  part. 
The  imperial  cities  of  the  world  have  shown 
Tributes  as  beautiful  at  worthy  shrines ; 
Something  is  here  that  moves  on  different  lines ; 
A  master-thought  that  we  would  claim  our  own ; 
A  magic  word— a  dominant  that  cries 
Insistent  through  this  fugue  of  industries. 

m. 

Some  magic  word  in  all  achievement  lies  — 
What  word  is  ours? 

If  for  a  moment  one 

Might  quite  undo  all  that  man  here  has  done, 
Should  level  to  the  earth  these  towers  that  rise 
Hued  like  an  opal  in  the  morning  skies, 
And  bid  this  radiant  city's  murmur  cease; 
Should  lull  the  distant  town  to  silent  peace, 
Still  clanging  engines  and  discordant  cries, 
And  hearken  as  this  spot  in  long-gone  years 
Hearkened  with  Nature's  myriad  woodland  ears, 
Out  of  the  awful  gorge  whose  throa/fc  pours  forth 
The  song  of  all  the  waters  of  the  North, 
The  magic  word,  from  that  vast  consonance, 
Clear  as  the  Voice  that  in  the  primal  night 
Spoke  to  the  waking  world,  "  Let  there  be  light !  " 
Should  greet  his  listening  ear  beyond  perchance. 

456 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

IV. 

A  Force — that  from  the  daybreak  of  the  years 

Has  sent  its  voice  above  the  roaring  mist, 

Has  flung  this  magic  word  to  heedless  ears, 

To  savage,  or  to  untaught  colonist ; 

A  Force — that  knew  its  power  yet  could  not  gain 

Man's  hand,  and  lacking  this  its  power  was  vain, 

Linked  with  the  knowledge  of  this  later  age 

Flashes  at  last  into  its  heritage. 

A  Force— whose  voice  acclaims  to  us  to-day, 

"  Behold  the  Genius  of  the  Century ; 

Whose  beckoning  hand  as  yet  we  only  see 

Stretched  from  the  unseen — pointing  out  the  way. 

Yet  not  forever  will  she  dwell  apart, 

Follow  her  guidance  with  unflinching  heart, 

With  limbs  in  which  no  faltering  finds  place ! 

So  at  the  last  perchance  ye  see  her  face ! " 


v. 


Type  of  the  sprites  who  wait  before  the  throne 
Of  the  great  kingdom,  of  the  Great  Unknown, 
To  future  ages  winged  messenger ; 
Old  as  God's  lightning  but  to  us  whose  ken 
Sees  but  the  distance  of  the  deeds  of  men, 
Youthful  as  yesterday,  a  child  new  born 
Just  waking  from  its  sleep,  yet  whose  first  stir 
Jars  the  old  order  from  its  groove  outworn. 

457 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

VI. 

Yet  there  is  more  that  we  would  dedicate, 
Something  that  makes  these  great  things  doubly 

great, 

Outside  the  scope  of  Science  and  of  Art, 
And  labour's  handiwork ;  within  the  heart, 
0  city  beautiful,  the  heart  of  thee ! 
Child  of  the  sunset  and  the  inland  sea, 
Thou  art  the  rainbow  promise  that  we  span, 
A  glowing  message  to  the  heart  of  man, 
Across  the  threshold  of  the  years  to  be ! 

*##**-3fr##*** 

We  saw  him  go,  who  is  but  lately  sped, 
The  old  great  century  whose  Fathers  came 
Out  of  the  smoke,  that  with  his  birth  turned  flame; 
And  still  we  almost  seem  to  hear  his  tread, 
Slow,  slow  receding,  firm  unto  the  last, 
To  see  him  dimly  with  his  unbent  head 
Leading  his  hundred  years  into  the  past, 
Among  the  great  centurions  of  lesser  fame. 

VII. 

We  know  too  well,  with  all  his  great  emprise, 
His  nervous  grasp  on  power,  unclouded  eyes, 
His  will  to  profit  by  free  thought  and  speech, 
When  sullen  nations  grappled  each  with  each 
That  he  was  only  impotently  wise. 
The  great  wars  thundered  in  his  infant  ears, 
The  great  wars  shook  him  in  his  later  years ; 

458 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

Beneath  the  curtain  of  the  stricken  field 
By  Glory's  riddled  banners,  half  concealed  — 
He  saw  the  tragedy  and  called  it  crime. 
But  heir  to  all  that  was,  last  child  of  Time, 
He  found  no  cure  for  what  his  soul  abhorred, 
And  when  he  passed,  his  right  hand  held  the  sword. 

vm. 

Now  swing  the  doors  upon  a  threshold  new :  — 
The  nations  press  in  eager  tumult  through, 
And  with  wide,  careless  eyes  about  them  peer. 
The  pageant  of  the  present  fills  the  gate, 
The  clamor  of  the  instant  holds  the  ear 
Till  the  brass  portals  to  the  echoes  ring; 
And  man,  contented  with  to-day's  estate, 
Recks  not  the  future,  howsoever  fraught. 
Almost  it  seems  the  steeds  of  action  spring, 
Unreined  by  judgment,  into  mid-career, 
And  drink  no  longer  at  cool  springs  of  thought. 
But  there  come  moments  when  resistless  need 
To  pause,  to  ponder  what  the  new  dawn  brings, 
To  what  adventure  the  dim  highways  lead, 
Lies  like  a  silence  at  the  heart  of  things ; 
And  who  then  listens  with  a  will  to  heed 
Shall  hear,  from  out  the  mist  that  like  a  ghost 
Hovers  among  the  turnings  of  the  way, 
The  murmur  of  a  great  awaking  host, 
The  laugh  of  bugles  in  the  breaking  day, 
And  nearer  drawing,  nearer,  nearer  yet, 
The  trampling  horse  that  bears  the  first  Vidette. 

459 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 


What  do  they  bring  to  us,  these  marching  years  ? 
Come  they  as  embassies,  or  with  the  sword  ? 
What  legend  on  the  pennons  of  their  spears. 
Defiance  or  long  peace  and  sweet  accord  ? 

x. 

Alas !  the  years  with  empty  hands  draw  nigh, 
They  do  not  come  to  give,  but  to  demand ; 
And  to  the  question  we  must  make  reply : 
"  WThat  do  ye  bring  to  our  expectant  band  ?  " 
The  right  is  theirs,  and  we  are  they  who  ought 
To  meet  them  bearing  gifts,  with  us  it  stands 
To  set  for  good  or  ill,  within  their  hands, 
The  tools  with  which  the  present  must  be  wrought. 

XI. 

0  sisterhood  of  all  who  bear  the  name, 

Ye  do  not  seek  alone  a  widened  mart ; 

A  larger  thought  than  trade  is  in  the  heart ; 

There  is  a  nobler  and  a  truer  aim ! 

The  "Know  thyself"  engraved  above  the  door 

Of  Delphi's  oracle  we  alter  here, 

To  "Know  each  other"— better  — more  and  more, 

Tenants  in  common  of  the  hemisphere ! 

For  Prejudice,  so  near  akin  to  Hate, 

Has  Ignorance  to  serve  him.    Will  ye  wait 

A  fairer  time  ?    What  time  so  fair  as  now  ? 

What  time  so  ripe?  Clasp  hand  in  hand,  and  thou, 

0  herald  year,  bear  witness  to  our  vow ! 

460 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

XII. 

"  Among  ourselves,  whatever  fate  may  be, 
We  will  not  strive— except  for  Liberty; 
Of  varied  speech,  of  varied  lineage  sprung, 
Deep  in  our  hearts  we  speak  a  common  tongue. 
When  clouds  drift  low  across  the  sombre  skies, 
When  questions  nettle  and  debate  shall  rise, 
This  mother-tongue  of  all  who  would  be  free 
Shall  seal  our  scabbards  and  unseal  our  eyes." 

XIII. 

And  thou,  my  Country,  whom  God's  hand  has 

made 

Greater  of  stature,  heavier  of  blade 
Than  these  thy  sisters,  it  must  be  for  thee 
To  give  the  password  of  the  Century. 
For  thee  by  thine  ensample  to  illume 
The  road  that  stretches  towards  the  marching 

years, 

And  so  to  lead  that  there  shall  be  no  room 
For  home-bred  cavil,  or  for  alien  sneers. 

XIV. 

"Oh,  beautiful,  my  country,"  so  he  wrote, 

Our  Lowell,  for  whose  peer  we  wait  in  vain, 

Art  thou  less  beautiful  because  the  stain 

Of  tears  is  gone  from  off  thy  cheeks  ?    Shall  we 

Less  freely  all  we  have  to  thee  devote 

Than  did  our  Fathers,  who  gave  all  for  thee? 

461 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

We  hear  the  little  prophets  of  no  hope 
Whose  eyes  scarce  reach  the  level  of  thy  knee, 
Cast  doubt  upon  thy  splendid  horoscope, 
Because  thy  robe's  hem  only  can  they  see. 
We  know  thy  garments  sometimes  touch  the  mire, 
We  know  deep  waters  sometimes  cross  thy  way, 
We  know  thy  limbs  must  often  bend  and  tire, 
But  we  have  faith  and  stronger  hearts  than  they. 
For  well  we  know,  though  flood  and  mire  be  deep, 
Thy  steadfast  feet  upon  the  causeway  keep ; 
And  well  we  know  that  with  unshaken  will 
Undaunted  in  whatever  quest  may  be, 
Above  thy  head,  yet  golden  with  thy  youth, 
Thou  bearest  the  sacred  fire  of  the  truth, 
The  vestal  of  the  great  humanity 
And  Virgin  still ! 


462 


CAROLINE    MISCHKA    ROBERTS 

Her  rosy  dreams  long  flown  away, 
But  happy  was  she,  though  bent  and  gray, 
For  love  stayed,  her  life  adorning. 

By  permission  of  Arthur  P.  Schmidt.    Copyright,  1894. 


LULLABY 

THE  Moon  hangs  low  in  the  eastern  sky, 

The»Sun  hangs  low  in  the  west, 
The  Evening  Star  in  the  heavens  is  high, 

A  gem  xm  the  Twilight's  breast ; 
And  each  one  says  that  the  time  is  nigh 

For  tired  wee  folk  to  rest, 
So  cuddle  ye  close  and  cosily  lie 

Tucked  in  your  warm  white  nest. 


POETS   AND    POETKY    OF   BUFFALO 


THEKLA  ADAM 

MARCH 

THIS  is  the  month  when  wild-flowers  dream, 

All  winter  they  have  slept, 
Still  as  the  dead,  in  frozen  ground. 

No  lightest  dream  has  crept 
Through  any  drowsy  flower-heart. 

Now  March  has  come, 
Faint  visions  warm  the  chilly  earth  — 

A  sleep  less  numb 
Is  theirs.    What  do  they  dream  of  there  ? 

Of  slopes  that  sun 
Themselves  in  April  light?    Of  streams 

That  gurgling  run 
Half -mad  with  joy?    Of  the  sweet  breath 

Of  ev'ry  lovely  thing 
That  breaks  the  mold  ?    Of  these,  and  all 

The  sweet,  sweet  joys  of  Spring. 


434 


JANE    F.    BOWLING 


JANE  F.  BOWLING 

(MRS.   ROBERT  B.   FOOTE.) 

ROSEMARY 

IF  for  each  tear  I've  shed,  a  joy  might  spring 

Into  thy  life,  dear  heart ! 
How  gladly  would  I  shed  them  all  again 

And  so  depart 

Upon  my  way,  glad  that  my  life  a  price 
Could  be 
For  thy  tranquility. 

If  for  each  hour  of  joy  I've  spent  with  thee 

In  days  gone  by, 
Thou  wilt  retain  a  tender  memory, 

Mayhap  a  sigh, 
'Twill  help  me  face  the  future  steadfastly, 

Though  life  will  be 
A  path  long,  dark  and  shadowy ; 

A  saltless  sea, 
With  thee  alive,  though  dead  to  me. 


435 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


S.  CECILIA  COTTER  KING 

(Mrs.  William  A.  King.) 
FEAST   OF   SAINT  CECILIA 

WHAT  thrilling  vibrations, 

What  soulful  cantations, 

Enrapture  the  heart  on  this  drear  autumn  day ! 

Making  God's  sunshine  rush  back  to  the  meadows, 

Making  the  songsters  recall  their  sweet  lay. 

Seraphic  voices  sing,  glorious  their  Antiphon ! 

Bright  ranks  of  choristers  swell  the  grand  tone, 

Cherubs  pronounce  the  song, — 

Fling  it  the  strings  along 

Of  harpsichords  glad. 

God  touched  the  love  note ; 

All  nature  responded, 

Cecilia's  soul  echoed  the  joyful  refrain, 

And  harmonies  captive  impetuous  break  forth, 

When  trumpeting  angels  her  festal  proclaim. 

Then  wondrous  the  power  is, 

And  magic  the  spell  'tis 

A  creature  creates. 

0  soul,  in  which  hides 

And  trembles  and  bides 

The  thoughts  of  our  God,  set  to  music  sublime ! 

Touch  softly  our  heartstrings.    In  tune  and  in  time 

436 


S.   CECILIA    COTTER    KING 

Our  years  be  as  hymnals,  our  days  their  sweet 

stanzas, 

Until,  Saint  Cecilia , 
Our  lives  blend  with  thine 
In  diapason  divine. 


437 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


PHILIP  BECKER  GOETZ 

KEATS 

A  Fragment. 

0  POET  whom  Apollo  taught  to  sing 

And  gave  the  lyre  antique  whose  muted  string 

Sang  never  clearlier  than  at  thy  sweep 

Of  hand  the  bright,  deep,  mighty  themes  asleep 

In  memory  and  long  forgot,  arise 

And  visit  with  thy  rare,  immediate  eyes, 

Thy  diadem  of  sky,  thy  robing  air, 

Thy  throne  of  earth,  and  hear  thy  granted  prayer, 

The  sea,  awaited  minstrel  of  thy  court, 

Before  thee  eloquently  echoing 

Thy  long  desire ! 

Despite  thy  mortal  spring 
Thy  promised  gifts  to  ripeness  learned  to  grow 
Till   now   hope's   autumn   rounds   th'  empurpled 

glow 

Of  all  thy  wanton-clustered  fancies  fair. 
Chill  reason's  frugal  fingers,  guessing  where 
Most  luscious  hung  these  arbiters  of  cheer, 
Plucked  prudently  thy  store  and,  marking  year, 
Finds  richer  to  the  taste  of  practised  lip 
Thy  joy  and  tragedy. 

Then  hither  trip, 

Ye  lissom  Mainads  of  the  secret  dell, 
Boon  Bakchanals,  and  ye  of  steep  and  fell, 

438 


PHILIP    BECKER    GOETZ 

0  pious  guardians,  the  sequent  host 

Of  piping  Pan,  and  ye  who  bleach  the  coast 

Where  dulcet  strains  of  music  amorous 

Met  your  forever-listening  ears  till  thus 

In  wreck  of  fallen  flesh,  quite  dissolute, 

Yet  listening  still,  ye  dropped  a  prey  to  brute ! 

And  thou,  queen  vigilant,  drawn  from  the  height 

Of  heaven,  snowy  with  erected  light 

Of  contemplation,  Dian,  most  romantic 

Become  above  thy  Latmian  whom  frantic 

Thy  virgin  arms  and  eyes  and  kisses  drave ; 

And  ye,  once  more  devising  how  to  save 

Olympos,  Titans  bent  beneath  the  hoary 

And  rock-ribbed  mountains,  hear  rehearsed  your 

glory, 

Strife  and  damnation,  and  declare  if  e'er 
Your  protest  toned  profounder  voice  than  there 
In  his  recorded  guess  deemed  worthless  care ! 


OBSCURITIES 

TO-DAY  you  see  a  rose 
And  only  color  glows 

And  speaks ; 

To-morrow  still  it  reigns 
But  other  gifts  contains 

And  seeks. 

As  for  the  rose  your  eye, 
So  for  the  poem  try 
All  ways ; 

439 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

If  never  twice  the  same, 
To  rose  or  eye  no  blame 
But  praise. 


PHILLIPS  BROOKS 

NOT  like  a  star  he  dwelt  apart  austere, 

Shining  diminished  through  the  airy  deep ; 

In  midmost  of  the  line  his  helm  and  spear 
Made  warriors  of  all  and  banished  fear. 


440 


JAMES    S.    METCALFE 


JAMES  S.  METCALFE 

THE    LAST    LOVER 

TIRED  of  earthly  loving, 

Weary  of  earthly  sin, 
Weighed  down  with  earthly  sorrow, 

Thy  peace  I  fain  would  win, 
Dear  Death ! 

In  thy  pale  arms  enfold  me ! 

Thy  damp  kiss  on  my  brow 
Shall  bring  me  peace  at  last,  love ; 

I  fain  would  have  it  now, 
Sweet  Death ! 

And  thy  love  shall  last  forever, 
And  thy  constancy  alway, 

So  tarry  not,  my  lover, 

But  come,  yes,  come  to-day, 
My  Death! 


441 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


CARLETON  SPRAGUE 


J.  G.   M. 

A  SCORE  of  years  and  ten  have  past, — 
How  stealthily  they  steal  away  our  days, 
These  silent  robbers  of  our  opportunities, — 

Since  first  this  friend 

Came  to  our  City's  gates ; 
Came  all  unheralded ;  and  unequipped  was  he 

With  that  on  which 

The  world  sets  greatest  store,— 
Wealth,  friends  powerful,  position  ready-made,— 

These  and  their  like  he  lacked, 

But  in  their  stead 
Some  precious  gifts  were  his,  gifts  not  the  rarest 

each, 
But  in  the  happy  combination  found  in  him 

How  rare ! 

And  first,  a  mind  well  trained, 
Stored  through  long,  studious  hours 
With  wealth  of  knowledge  gained 
In   journeys   wide   through   book-strewn   paths, 

which, 
Tracing  out  an  hundred  devious  ways, 

Converge  at  last 
Before  that  lofty  temple,  whose  white  portal 

Bears  the  inscription  "Culture," 

442 


CAKLETON    SPRAGUE 

But  a  single  word,  than  which 

Few  higher  titles  name 

The  best  of  any  age 

Since  man  began  to  find  his  best  expression. 
And  his  the  sweetness  of  the  gentle  great, — 

Best  gift  of  God,— 
And  his  wide  tolerance,  broad  sympathies 

And  love  of  fellow  men. 
They,  feeling  this,  and  taking  his  warm  hand, 

The  kindliness  flowed  into  them 

And  all  were  better  men 
Because  he  came  and  lived  within  their  midst. 

This  human  influence 

Toward  what  is  good  in  us, 
This  quickened  flow  of  finer  impulses 

Which  dormant  lie 
Beneath  the  weight  of  every  day, — 
To  stir  these  by  mere  presence, 
By  character's  involuntary  worth, 
Is  to  attain  to  heights  few  mount, 

Is  to  behold  the  Promised  Land. 

January,  1904 


443 


POETS   AND   POETRY   OF   BUFFALO 


BY  AN  UNNAMED  WRITER 

THOUGHTS  ON  A   LONE  OAK 

GREAT,  grand  and  gnarled  Oak,  continually 

Thy  weary  arms  seem  reaching  into  space ; 

Of  time  and  tempest  still  thou  bearest  trace ; 
Beside  thee  stands  no  sympathizing  tree 

To  whisper  comfort  in  thy  lonely  place : 
The  parting  sun  sinks  silent  o'er  the  sea, 
His  light  a  passing  glory  rests  on  thee ; 

I  see  Endurance  crowned  and  hide  my  face ! 

Like  thee,  old  Oak,  I,  too,  have  stood  apart, 
Beaten  by  winds,  forsaken  and  forlorn, 

I  stretched  my  arms  to  unresponsive  air ; 
I  said  in  bitterness  be  strong  my  heart ! 

Now,  life's  delusions  from  my  soul  are  torn ; 
I,  too,  can  storm  and  isolation  bear. 

1893. 


444 


ROBERT    CAMERON    ROGERS 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

BLIND   POLYPHEMUS 

ALL  day  upon  a  grassy  slope  I  stretch 

My  vast  uncertain  limbs.    About  me  stray 

The  sheep  I  used  to  watch,  whom  still  I  turn 

My  darkened  eye  upon,  and  I  can  hear 

The  patter  of  their  feet,  stray  near,  stray  far. 

I  hear  as  others  see,  and  still  my  voice 

Has  worship  with  the  sheep,  they  come  at  call. 

Sometimes  I  lie  so  still  the  new-weaned  lambs 

Huddle  against  me  when  the  wind  blows  cold, 

Sometimes  they  leap  upon  me  in  their  play. 

They  fear  me  not,  my  sheep  have  never  feared. 

My  hand  was  only  harsh  against  my  kind, 

And  those  fell  creatures  whom  the  gods  gave  souls 

To  vex  the  Mother  with  their  restless  lives. 

Aye,  such  as  he,  the  wily  Ithacan. 

For  one  long  year  I  saw  him,  day  by  day, 

Against  the  scar-seamed  curtain  of  mine  eye,— 

His  quick  frank  smile,  his  eyes  that  read  one's  mind 

Yet  never  gave  me  glimmer  of  his  own, — 

His  lean  strong  arms  and  broad,  brown,  knotted 

back, 

And  his  gaunt  followers  all  like  to  him 
As  little  foxes  to  their  keen-eyed  sire. 
And  each  day,  for  a  year,  I  felt  my  way, 
Down  to  the  beach,  and  washed  the  heal  ing  wound, 

445 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  BUFFALO 

And  laid  my  head  upon  the  cool  wet  sand, 
And  cried  to  Father  Sea  to  pay  my  score, 
Tenfold  redoubled,  on  the  crafty  one ; 
To  drive  him  rudderless  on  outer  seas , 
To  drift  him  wide  of  port,  to  suck  his  men 
Deep  into  eddying  water-pits — to  death ; 
And  then  when,  day  by  day,  his  blurring  eyes 
Had  strained,  to  heart-break,  for  a  sight  of  port, 
To  show  him  land,  and  then — to  strike  him  blind. 

But  peace  has  come  at  last.    My  brothers  deem 
Because  I  rage  no  more,  that  I  am  mad ; 
Because  my  sight  is  turned  upon  myself 
And  I  see  dimly  where  the  brute  has  lain 
That  made  my  heart  his  lair,  and  find  it  foul. 
I  cannot  drive  my  past  into  the  past, 
My  memory  holds,  but  I  shall  curse  no  more. 

And  often  I  forget, —  when  at  my  side 

The  old  ram  crouches,  legs  beneath  him  bent, 

And  round  his  wrinkled  horns  I  grip  my  hands 

And  pillow  soft  my  face  upon  his  flank. 

Sleep  comes — the  blind  may  sleep  as  sweet  and  deep 

As  those  whose  eyes  are  weary  of  the  day, — 

And  at  my  side  the  ram  lies  quietly  — 

He  guards  me  now,  for  once  I  guarded  him. 

And  Zeus  grants  one  delight;  — when  day  is  gone, 
When  night  blinds  all,  my  sight  comes  back  to  me ; 
And  I  can  see,  as  last  I  saw,  the  day  — 
The  great  blue  breathing  deep— the  black  ribbed  slag 
That  Titans  flung  from  ^Etna's  forge  to  cool 

446 


EGBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

Amid  the  breakers  and  away,  beyond, 

The  coast  of  Italy.— Again  I  see 

The  hazy  hills  where  graze  my  brother's  sheep, 

The  olive  trees  that  bow  themselves  and  peer 

Down  grassy  gullies,  and  the  timid  joy 

Of  almond  trees  in  bloom. 

When  morning  comes 

The  ewes  unbidden  crowd  about  my  knees, 
And  with  blind  hands  grown  gentler  than  of  old 
I  milk  them  one  by  one ; —  then  pasturewards 
I  follow  them  who  one  time  followed  me. 


A  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  CAMP  FIRES 
I. 

FOOD  for  the  horses— lots  of  it— upon  the  bluff, 
Sure  to  be  a  spring  in  a  pocket  of  the  hill, 
There  in  the  deadfall  for  a  fire  wood  enough, 
Here's  the  place  for  bedding  down  — 
Whoa !  Stand  still ! 

Throw  off  the  saddles,  untwist  the  hackamores, 
Loads  off  the  burro  and  the  pack  cayuse : 
One  shall  wear  a  bell  to  keep  the  stock  in  ear-shot, 
Twist  the  hobbles  round  their  legs  and 
Turn  them  loose. 

Here  on  the  spot  wrhere  a  fire  crackled  last  year, 
Scrape  the  charry  faggots  off,  kindle  one  anew; 

447 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Men  and  seasons  out  of  mind  each   band   that 

passed  here, 

Lured  by  feed  and  water,  stopped  and 
Made  camp  too. 

Sage-brush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 

Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn-winds  blow ; 
Oh  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 

n. 

Here  used  to  camp  with  squaws  and  dogs  and 

ponies, 

Long  before  the  coming  of  the  pale-face  breed, 
Blackfeet  hunters,  Bannocks  and  Shoshones, 
Laying  in  their  meat  against  a 
Winter's  need. 

Warm  in  their  blankets,  weaving  savage  fancies 
Out  of  the  smoke  that  veered  above  the  blaze, 
Fortunate  hunts,  the  foray  and  its  chances, 
New  squaws  and  ponies  and  the 
Head  Chief's  praise. 

War  parties  lurk  on  the  trails  to    the   hunting 

grounds, 

Treachery  enters  where  the  tepees  spread, 
New  scalps  dry  in  the  Absaroka  villages, 
The  lodge-poles  are  broken  and  the 
Fire  is  dead . 

448 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

Sage-brush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 

Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn-winds  blow ; 
Oh  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 

m. 

Here  later  on  came  the  man  whose  race  is  sped 

and  gone, 

Born  white,  burnt  red  under  wind  and  sun ; 
Life  in  the  one  hand,  rifle  in  the  other  one, 
Traps  on  every  creek  in  which  the 
Beaver  run. 

Feet  to  the  fire,  watching  where  the  eddies  spin, 
Pine  smoke  eddies,  while  the  damp  logs  sing, 
Conjuring  visions  of  mighty  packs  of  beaver  skin, 
Good  for  gold  in  plenty  at  the  post 
In  the  spring. 

Trail  to  the  traps  in  the  creek  at  the  break  of  day, 

No  trail  back  and  the  sunset  is  red ; 

Two  eagles  wheel  above  the  brush  at  the  beaver 

dam, 

A  timber-wolf  is  howling,  and  the 
Fire  is  dead. 

Sage-brush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 
Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn- winds  blow ; 

449 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Oh  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 


IV. 


Gone  bow  and  quiver,  lance  and  feather  bonnet, 
Smooth  bore  and  beaver-trap,  buckskin  jacket,  all  — 
Here  is  the  stage— but  where  the  actors  on  it? 
Dead  to  our  plaudits,  and  the 
Vain  recall. 

Still  one  shall  hear  the  coyote  in  the  moonlight, 
Still  hear  the  bull-elk  whistle  up  the  sun, 
Still  the  old  orchestra  carrying  the  tune  right, — 
Oh  wasted  music ;  for  the 
Play  is  done. 

We,  too,  shall  act  our  parts  on  other  stages, 
Spinning  out  fancies  while  the  Fates  spin  thread. 
Heap  up  the  fire  then,  keep  the  present  cheery, 
We  must  hit  the  trail,  too,  when  the 
Fire  is  dead. 

Sage-brush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 

Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn-winds  blow ; 
Oh  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 

450 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

THE   TETONS  AT   DUSK 

THE  sun  has  dropped  behind  the  range, 

The  twilight  saddens  hill  and  tree, 
A  moment  now  the  world  is  strange, 

A  shifting  fairy  world  to  me. 
The  same  terrain  spreads  mile  on  mile 

From  mountain  base  to  mountain  base — 
But  Nature  wears  her  vision-look 

Upon  a  changing  face. 

From  early  years,  of  sterner  ways, 

On  shadowy  steeds — from  Deadman's  Keep- 
The  spectres  of  heroic  days 

Across  a  haunted  twilight  sweep. 
Soldier  and  scout,  whose  dust,  perchance, 

Still  drifts  about  the  sage-brush  plain, 
Keen  hunter,  eager  emigrant, 

Start  forth  to  life  again. 

A  moment  —  and  the  silent  band, 

Down  trails  that  thread  the  wastes  of  Dusk, 
Ride  back  once  more  into  the  land 

Beyond  the  old  day's  yellow  husk ; 
And  like  grim  warders  of  the  Past 

The  Tetons  loom,  with  shoulders  white  — 
Their  mighty  backs  forever  set 

Against  the  gates  of  night. 


451 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

A  SLEEPING  PRIESTESS  OF  APHRODITE 

SHE  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair — 
About  her  feet  the  lithe  green  lizards  play 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air. 

The  winds  have  loosed  the  fillet  from  her  hair ; 
Sea-winds,  salt-lipped,  that  laugh  and  seem  to 

say: 
"She  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair, 

"  Then  let  us  twine  soft  fingers,  here  and  there, 

Amid  the  gleaming  threads  that  drift  and  stray 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air, 

"  And  let  us  weave  of  them  a  subtle  snare 
To  cast  about  and  bind  her,  as  to-day 
She  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair." 

Alas,  the  madcap  winds,  how  much  they  dare ! 

They  wove  the  web,  and  in  their  wanton  way, 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air, 

They  bound  her  sleeping,  in  her  own  bright  hair  — 
And  as  she  slept  came  Love  —  and  passed  away— 
She  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair, 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air. 


TO   AN  OLD   FRIEND 

A  KINDRED  taste  in  books— the  better  kind, 
A  love  for  humor— of  an  honest  vein  — 
A  turn  for  talk,  for  verses,  and  a  strain 

452 


EGBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

Of  Scottish  blood— last,  but  not  least  to  mind, 
A  joy  in  vain  debate;  all  these  combined 

Have  made  us  young  together— spite  the  score 
Of  years  you  rank  me,  and  the  little  more 
Of  gray  above  a  brow  no  deeper  lined. 

But  to  keep  young  together  —  how  solve  this? 

Who  reads  the  riddle  never  need  grow  old : 
To  leave  the  heart  unlocked,  that  naught  in  vain 
So  it  be  worthy — yes — though  it  be  pain  — 
Shall  seek  the  door :  old  friend  I  cannot  miss 

The  simple  answer,  by  your  own  life  told ! 


THE   ROSARY 

THE  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart, 

Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me ; 
I  count  them  over,  every  one  apart, 
My  Rosary. 

Each  hour  a  pearl,  each  pearl  a  prayer, 

To  still  a  heart  in  absence  wrung ; 
I  tell  each  bead  unto  the  end  and  there 
A  Cross  is  hung. 

Oh  memories  that  bless  and  burn ! 

Oh  barren  gain  — and  bitter  loss ! 
I  kiss  each  bead  and  strive  at  last  to  learn, 
To  kiss  the  Cross, 
Sweetheart, 

To  kiss  the  Cross. 

453 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

SERENADE  IN  SEVILLE 

ALL  murmur,  all  motion  is  hushed  on  the  Prado, 

Concita, 

No  echoing  tread  in  the  dark  street  is  heard, 
I  stand  here  alone  at  my  heart's  El  Dorado, 

Carita, 
Waiting  for  one  little  word. 

Aslant  the  Giralda  the  moon  pours  its  riches, 

Concita, 
And  through  the  dark  church  draws  a  pathway 

of  light; 

The  saints  are  asleep  in  their  shrines  and  their 
niches, 

Carita, 
We  only  are  wakeful  to-night. 

All  Seville  is  sleeping  about  me,  above  me, 

Concita, 
Alone  in  the  dark  I  am  waiting  for  hope  or 

despair, 
So  drop  me  a  token  to  show  that  you  love  me, 

Carita, 
Or  drop  the  stiletto  that  gleams  in  your  hair. 


454 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

POEM  DELIVERED  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE 
PAN-AMERICAN  EXPOSITION,  MAY,  1901. 

I. 

GREAT  Sister  of  a  peerless  sisterhood, 

Dear  Sovereign  of  a  sovereign  people's  realm, 

Thou  whose  strong  hand  first  gripped  the  waiting 

helm 

Of  the  bright  ship  whose  chart  reads  — ' '  Liberty ' '  — 
And  turned  her  prow  into  the  Western  sea, 
We,  in  thy  name,  and  as  thy  people  should, 
With  arms  extended,  and  the  door  wide  thrown, 
Welcome  thy  sisters  of  the  mighty  name, 
To  all  that  thou  hast  willed  should  be  our  own. 
To  thee— to  them— thy  sisters,  not  in  blood, 
But  of  one  heart,  of  purposes  the  same, 
Throughout  whose  veins  exults  the  untamed  flood 
That  drives  the  pulse  of  all  who  would  be  free, 
This  labour  of  our  hands  and  brains  and  hearts, 
Man's  palm  in  Nature's  struck  and  hers  in  Art's, 
At  the  chief  Commonwealth's  fair  farthest  gate 
We  dedicate. 

ii. 

Enchanted  city  where  the  dreaming  soul 

Conjures  the  minarets  of  far  Cathay  — 

And  half  expects  along  some  waterway 

To  hear  all  Venice  in  a  barcarole ; 

Mistress  of  moods,  across  whose  changing  face 

Half  of  old  Spain  and  half  of  Greece  we  trace ; 

455 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

Hither  the  nations  of  the  West  have  brought 
Fruit  of  their  labour,  flower  of  their  thought ; 
Best  of  their  best  beside  our  best  finds  place : 
The  Saxon  vigor  vies  with  Latin  grace ; 
And  tithes  are  paid  in  product  and  in  art. 
But  in  all  this  the  past  as  well  has  part. 
The  imperial  cities  of  the  world  have  shown 
Tributes  as  beautiful  at  worthy  shrines ; 
Something  is  here  that  moves  on  different  lines ; 
A  master-thought  that  we  would  claim  our  own ; 
A  magic  word — a  dominant  that  cries 
Insistent  through  this  fugue  of  industries. 

m. 

Some  magic  word  in  all  achievement  lies  — 
What  word  is  ours? 

If  for  a  moment  one 

Might  quite  undo  all  that  man  here  has  done, 
Should  level  to  the  earth  these  towers  that  rise 
Hued  like  an  opal  in  the  morning  skies, 
And  bid  this  radiant  city's  murmur  cease; 
Should  lull  the  distant  town  to  silent  peace, 
Still  clanging  engines  and  discordant  cries, 
And  hearken  as  this  spot  in  long-gone  years 
Hearkened  w7ith  Nature's  myriad  woodland  ears, 
Out  of  the  awful  gorge  whose  throat  pours  forth 
The  song  of  all  the  waters  of  the  North, 
The  magic  word,  from  that  vast  consonance, 
Clear  as  the  Voice  that  in  the  primal  night 
Spoke  to  the  waking  world,  "  Let  there  be  light !  " 
Should  greet  his  listening  ear  beyond  perchance. 

456 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

IV. 

A  Force— that  from  the  daybreak  of  the  years 

Has  sent  its  voice  above  the  roaring  mist, 

Has  flung  this  magic  word  to  heedless  ears, 

To  savage,  or  to  untaught  colonist ; 

A  Force — that  knew  its  power  yet  could  not  gain 

Man's  hand,  and  lacking  this  its  power  was  vain, 

Linked  with  the  knowledge  of  this  later  age 

Flashes  at  last  into  its  heritage. 

A  Force — whose  voice  acclaims  to  us  to-day, 

"  Behold  the  Genius  of  the  Century ; 

Whose  beckoning  hand  as  yet  we  only  see 

Stretched  from  the  unseen — pointing  out  the  way. 

Yet  not  forever  will  she  dwell  apart, 

Follow  her  guidance  with  unflinching  heart, 

With  limbs  in  which  no  faltering  finds  place ! 

So  at  the  last  perchance  ye  see  her  face ! " 


v. 


Type  of  the  sprites  who  wait  before  the  throne 
Of  the  great  kingdom,  of  the  Great  Unknown, 
To  future  ages  winged  messenger ; 
Old  as  God's  lightning  but  to  us  whose  ken 
Sees  but  the  distance  of  the  deeds  of  men, 
Youthful  as  yesterday,  a  child  new  born 
Just  waking  from  its  sleep,  yet  whose  first  stir 
Jars  the  old  order  from  its  groove  outworn. 

457 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

VI. 

Yet  there  is  more  that  we  would  dedicate, 
Something  that  makes  these  great  things  doubly 

great, 

Outside  the  scope  of  Science  and  of  Art, 
And  labour's  handiwork ;  within  the  heart, 
0  city  beautiful,  the  heart  of  thee ! 
Child  of  the  sunset  and  the  inland  sea, 
Thou  art  the  rainbow  promise  that  we  span, 
A  glowing  message  to  the  heart  of  man, 
Across  the  threshold  of  the  years  to  be ! 
*********** 

We  saw  him  go,  who  is  but  lately  sped, 
The  old  great  century  whose  Fathers  came 
Out  of  the  smoke,  that  with  his  birth  turned  flame; 
And  still  we  almost  seem  to  hear  his  tread, 
Slow,  slow  receding,  firm  unto  the  last, 
To  see  him  dimly  with  his  unbent  head 
Leading  his  hundred  years  into  the  past, 
Among  the  great  centurions  of  lesser  fame. 

vn. 

We  know  too  well,  with  all  his  great  emprise, 
His  nervous  grasp  on  power,  unclouded  eyes, 
His  will  to  profit  by  free  thought  and  speech, 
When  sullen  nations  grappled  each  with  each 
That  he  was  only  impotently  wise. 
The  great  wars  thundered  in  his  infant  ears, 
The  great  wars  shook  him  in  his  later  years ; 

.     458 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

Beneath  the  curtain  of  the  stricken  field 
By  Glory's  riddled  banners,  half  concealed  — 
He  saw  the  tragedy  and  called  it  crime. 
But  heir  to  all  that  was,  last  child  of  Time, 
He  found  no  cure  for  what  his  soul  abhorred, 
And  when  he  passed,  his  right  hand  held  the  sword 

VIII. 

Now  swing  the  doors  upon  a  threshold  new :  — 
The  nations  press  in  eager  tumult  through, 
And  with  wide,  careless  eyes  about  them  peer. 
The  pageant  of  the  present  fills  the  gate, 
The  clamor  of  the  instant  holds  the  ear 
Till  the  brass  portals  to  the  echoes  ring; 
And  man,  contented  with  to-day's  estate, 
Recks  not  the  future,  howsoever  fraught. 
Almost  it  seems  the  steeds  of  action  spring, 
Unreined  by  judgment,  into  mid-career, 
And  drink  no  longer  at  cool  springs  of  thought. 
But  there  come  moments  when  resistless  need 
To  pause,  to  ponder  what  the  new  dawn  brings, 
To  what  adventure  the  dim  highways  lead, 
Lies  like  a  silence  at  the  heart  of  things ; 
And  who  then  listens  with  a  will  to  heed 
Shall  hear,  from  out  the  mist  that  like  a  ghost 
Hovers  among  the  turnings  of  the  way, 
The  murmur  of  a  great  awaking  host, 
The  laugh  of  bugles  in  the  breaking  day, 
And  nearer  drawing,  nearer,  nearer  yet, 
The  trampling  horse  that  bears  the  first  Vidette. 

459 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 


IX. 

What  do  they  bring  to  us,  these  marching  years  ? 
Come  they  as  embassies,  or  with  the  sword  ? 
What  legend  on  the  pennons  of  their  spears. 
Defiance  or  long  peace  and  sweet  accord? 

x. 

Alas !  the  years  with  empty  hands  draw  nigh, 
They  do  not  come  to  give,  but  to  demand ; 
And  to  the  question  we  must  make  reply : 
"  What  do  ye  bring  to  our  expectant  band  ?  " 
The  right  is  theirs,  and  we  are  they  who  ought 
To  meet  them  bearing  gifts,  with  us  it  stands 
To  set  for  good  or  ill,  within  their  hands, 
The  tools  with  which  the  present  must  be  wrought. 

XI. 

0  sisterhood  of  all  who  bear  the  name, 

Ye  do  not  seek  alone  a  widened  mart; 

A  larger  thought  than  trade  is  in  the  heart ; 

There  is  a  nobler  and  a  truer  aim ! 

The  "Know  thyself"  engraved  above  the  door 

Of  Delphi's  oracle  we  alter  here, 

To  "Know  each  other"— better  — more  and  more, 

Tenants  in  common  of  the  hemisphere ! 

For  Prejudice,  so  near  akin  to  Hate, 

Has  Ignorance  to  serve  him.    Will  ye  wait 

A  fairer  time?    What  time  so  fair  as  now? 

What  time  so  ripe?  Clasp  hand  in  hand,  and  thou, 

0  herald  year,  bear  witness  to  our  vow ! 

460 


ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

XII. 

"  Among  ourselves,  whatever  fate  may  be, 
We  will  not  strive — except  for  Liberty; 
Of  varied  speech,  of  varied  lineage  sprung, 
Deep  in  our  hearts  we  speak  a  common  tongue. 
When  clouds  drift  low  across  the  sombre  skies, 
When  questions  nettle  and  debate  shall  rise, 
This  mother-tongue  of  all  who  would  be  free 
Shall  seal  our  scabbards  and  unseal  our  eyes." 

XIII. 

And  thou,  my  Country,  whom  God's  hand  has 

made 

Greater  of  stature,  heavier  of  blade 
Than  these  thy  sisters,  it  must  be  for  thee 
To  give  the  password  of  the  Century. 
For  thee  by  thine  ensample  to  illume 
The  road  that  stretches  towards  the  marching 

years, 

And  so  to  lead  that  there  shall  be  no  room 
For  home-bred  cavil,  or  for  alien  sneers. 

XIV. 

"Oh,  beautiful,  my  country,"  so  he  wrote, 

Our  Lowell,  for  whose  peer  we  wait  in  vain, 

Art  thou  less  beautiful  because  the  stain 

Of  tears  is  gone  from  off  thy  cheeks  ?    Shall  we 

Less  freely  all  we  have  to  thee  devote 

Than  did  our  Fathers,  who  gave  all  for  thee? 

461 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  BUFFALO 

We  hear  the  little  prophets  of  no  hope 
Whose  eyes  scarce  reach  the  level  of  thy  knee, 
Cast  doubt  upon  thy  splendid  horoscope, 
Because  thy  robe's  hem  only  can  they  see. 
We  know  thy  garments  sometimes  touch  the  mire, 
We  know  deep  waters  sometimes  cross  thy  way, 
We  know  thy  limbs  must  often  bend  and  tire, 
But  we  have  faith  and  stronger  hearts  than  they. 
For  well  we  know,  though  flood  and  mire  be  deep, 
Thy  steadfast  feet  upon  the  causeway  keep ; 
And  well  we  know  that  with  unshaken  will 
Undaunted  in  whatever  quest  may  be, 
Above  thy  head,  yet  golden  with  thy  youth, 
Thou  bearest  the  sacred  fire  of  the  truth, 
The  vestal  of  the  great  humanity 
And  Virgin  still ! 


462 

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Johnston,  J.N0 

The  poets  and  poetry 
of  Buffalo. 


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